


Real Time

by Callie4180



Category: 24 (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 24 (TV) fusion, BAMF!Mrs H, Challenge fic, Creepy Moriarty, It's pathological really, M/M, Suggestions of torture (offscreen), Violence (mostly offscreen), why do i keep doing this to myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-10-22 11:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 74,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10696395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: The world is under the threat of a biological weapon, and a brilliant biochemist needs protection. His own life is a mess, and he doesn't know who he can trust. He's going to have to be at his best every moment if he's going to survive.This is going to be the longest day of John Watson's life.





	1. Midnight to 1:00AM

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiltedsyllogism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism/gifts), [UrbanHymnal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/gifts), [DraloreShimare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraloreShimare/gifts).



> For the Fall TV Season Sherlock April Miniseries Challenge, 2017: A Sherlock/24 fusion.
> 
> Please don’t assume you need any knowledge of 24; this story is intended to stand on its own. 
> 
> This fic has been betaed, together and in turns, by the fantastic 221bJen, and the incomparable Kedgeree11. I am forever in their debt.
> 
> **Note: Final edits are done, and this story is complete.**

John Watson walks through the lobby of the quiet building, exchanging a nod with the serviceman behind the desk. It’s been a long time since he’s been here, but almost nothing has changed. It’s depressing and soothing, all at once.

The man in the elevator mirror looks like a stranger. John is not a tall man, but he has a commanding presence. He’s relaxed and confident, though there is tension in his shoulders that suggests he’s ready for action, and his gaze is shrewd and still. He’s got lines in his face from long days in the sun, and a quick smile that stops just short of his alert eyes.  He’s wearing fatigue pants, black army boots and a leather jacket that has seen quite a bit of action. He looks tired. He looks eager.

He takes a deep breath as the doors open, and relaxes into the easiest smile he can manage. The office is just down the hall a few steps, and it would not do to be caught off guard. 

“Kind of late for a briefing, isn’t it, Major?”

“Captain. Come in.” Sholto stands behind his desk, a genuine, welcoming smile on his face. “You got here quickly.”

“Well, not much traffic this late at night, you know.” John walks over to the desk. “Not much police presence, either, so it’s easy to make good time.” He holds out his hand. “But you know it’s not Captain anymore. Please call me John.”

Sholto nods and motions to a chair. “John, then. Don’t know that I’ll ever get used to that.”

John’s smile tightens. “Not sure I will, either.” He sits and looks quickly but comprehensively around the room. “So what keeps a handsome man such as yourself trapped in his office so late of an evening? The pleasures of San Francisco not enough to tempt you?”

“Oh, no. That’s not the case at all.” Sholto’s smile dims just a little as he sits back down. “I love a good sourdough bread as much as the next man.”

John laughs as he crosses his legs. “Don’t get much of that in London, do we.”

Major Sholto shakes his head. “No, but the fog is pretty much the same, wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose.” John rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I miss decent tea, though. And the tube.”

Sholto hums. “The wine’s better here.”

“Christ, yes.” John spreads his hands. “All right, full marks for banter. It’s good to see you again, James. Now what the hell is this all about? I get a call on my mobile--my personal mobile--from a man who sounds like the very bored voice of God telling me to get my arse into mufti and get over here. I’m assuming you don’t need a fourth for golf.”

“No.” Sholto’s smile fades. “No, we need you for something very important.” He slides a file across the desk. “Take a look at this.”

John flips the folder open and starts to scan the contents. His curious expression becomes focused, and then fierce. He finally looks up at Sholto with a pronounced frown.

“Shit.”

“Exactly.” Sholto stands, comes around his desk, and leans on the corner. “Biological warfare. Nasty stuff.”

“How reliable is the intel?”

“Tragically good, and independently confirmed. Those weapons are on the move.”

“All right. And this man--” John taps on a sheet of paper. “He’s come up with an antidote. Impressive.” He leans back. “Now why is this a problem for the Royal Marines?”

“The scientist is one of ours, a Brit.” Sholto picks up the paper and reads. “Sherlock Holmes, microbiologist, pharmacologist, biochemist and general genius.” He hands the paper back to John. “He’s spending his sabbatical at the Lawrence Livermore National Labs, conveniently located just down the street in--”

“Ah. Berkeley. But this says he’s actually on staff at Porton Down, working for the British government.” John looks up from the report, his brows lifted with surprise. “Are they still doing weapons research there? I thought they’d shut that unit down.”

Sholto shrugs. “No one knows. They’ve got Ebola, plague and anthrax on site, that’s been confirmed. There’s some cannabis research, if you can believe it.  But everything else is top secret, including the menu in the commissary. They could be working on vaccines, or treatment, or weapons, or knitting patterns.” He wipes his hand across his eyes. “The facility is only two hours west of London, but it might as well be in bloody Egypt, for all we know about what they’re doing.”

“Hmm.” John turns the page and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, you didn’t say the man was a supermodel, Major.” He holds up a black and white photo of a tall, striking dark-haired man in a lab coat. “Do all of our super secret sciencey-genius types look like this? I mean--wow.”

Sholto stiffens. “I wouldn’t have thought he was your type, Captain.”

“Well, I’m not blind, am I?” John asks absently, still studying the photo. He looks up, and his gaze hardens. “It won’t be like that, James,” he says firmly. “He’s an assignment.”

Sholto nods, his shoulders relaxing. “Right. Just--remember that, won’t you? It’s a mission. Just get it done.”

“I will,” John says flatly. “So what  _ is _ the mission? What exactly am I supposed to be doing with top-secret too-smart science man?”

“Ah. Well, it’s a pretty easy assignment: get him and his antidote formula to the CDC in Atlanta, as quickly as possible.”

“I see.” John scratched his head thoughtfully. “Obvious question--has top-secret too-smart science man ever heard of email?”

Sholto smirked. “Well, it’s not just the antidote we want. He’s been working on mass producing this formula, if the reports are correct, which is apparently a tricky process. He’s going to be the best at adapting the process to the equipment they have on hand in Atlanta. And also...” 

John tilts his head. “What?”

Sholto sighs deeply. “Well, he’s a target, honestly. For the other side, for non-state actors, for anyone who wants to kill a lot of people, basically. We’re lucky he’s working for our side. But if there’s any risk of him falling into enemy hands--”

John’s gaze hardens. “I’m not to let that happen. At any cost. Is that right?” He breathes out once, a harsh sound. “And now we get to why I, of all people, have been pulled out of retirement to be given this assignment.”

“We know you’ll do what you have to to keep us safe, Captain,” Sholto says firmly, lifting his chin. “This country, and our own country.  _ Your _ country. We know we can count on you. You should be  _ proud." _

“Proud.” John snorts. “And it doesn’t matter what it does to me, right? It doesn’t matter what it costs  _ me." _

Sholto stares at him. “Are you declining the assignment?”

John stares back for a long moment, before finally blinking. “No,” he says slowly. He sags back into his chair. “No, I’m not.”

“Good.” Sholto releases a long breath. “That’s a relief, because you’re the only one I’d trust with something this important.”

John inclines his head but doesn’t otherwise acknowledge the compliment. “I’m assuming time is of the essence?”

“Yes.” Sholto stands, suddenly all business. “There’s a car for you downstairs. You’ll collect Holmes in Berkeley, and then head up to Travis Air Force Base. There’ll be a private military jet waiting for you there. Should be a quick flight to Atlanta, if all goes well.” He hesitates. “I’ve--we’ve tried to get you people you trust to work with. I hope that helps. I didn’t want to bring up bad memories, but…” He fixes John with a steady look. “We need you for this, John.”

“I appreciate it, James, and I won’t let you down.” John stands and offers his hand. “I’ll keep you advised.”

\---

John steps outside and immediately breaks into a chuckle. “Oh, fuck me. Jesus, Mike.” He walks over to the large black sedan, drops his duffel bag, and throws his arms around the man standing at elaborate attention next to the open trunk. “What the hell are you doing driving the likes of me around? Did you get demoted?” John pulls back, grinning widely, still clapping the man on the shoulder. “You finally got busted sleeping with the general’s wife, didn’t you. I  _ warned _ you, Mike.”

Mike smiles widely. “Ah, hell, Doc, you know how it is. I try to be good, but the hotties can’t help themselves when they get a load of this.” He jiggles his ample belly. 

John laughs again. “Damn, but it’s good to see you again.” He throws his duffel into the trunk. “Shall we?” 

Mike slams the hood and goes to open the back door, but John moves to stop him. “No way, mate. I’m taking shotgun. I’m not Prince Charles, for Christ’s sake.”

Mike grins. “I should say not. Prince Charles would have shaved, at least.”

John flashes him a grin and an obscene gesture, and they both climb into the car. Mike turns the ignition, and the car pulls gracefully away from the curb. They ride for a couple of minutes in comfortable silence, as Mike maneuvers the car onto the freeway. 

They merge into the light late night traffic, and Mike glances at John from the corner of his eye. “Permission to speak freely?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” John shakes his head, amused. “Foxhole rules, as ever. Go ahead.”

“All right, well, forgive me, but have you slept in the past week? You look like shite, Doc.”

“Ah.” John’s smile fades. “So it’s to be honesty, then.”

Mike shrugs. “We can talk rugby, if you’d rather.”

“No, it’s okay. Just--” John sighs and looks out the window. “It’s not Doc anymore, all right? I let my license go.”

“Really?” Mike sneaks another glance. “Why?”

“You know why.”

“Oh.” They ride along for a long minute. “We all think that was so much bullshit, by the way, what happened.”

John snorts. “Who thinks that?”

“Every goddamn soldier who ever met you, is who. Everyone who fought with you. Every person you ever saved.”

John looks down at his hands where they are clasped in his lap for a long minute. “It’s fine,” he says finally, still not looking at Mike. “I’m really better with a gun, anyway.”

“Well, you were no slouch there, that much is certain. Did you bring it?”

“What?” 

“Your gun.”

“Oh. Yeah.” John takes a deep breath. “I never leave home without it.”


	2. 1:00AM to 2:00AM

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock says, with a definitive shake of his head. “This is ridiculous.” He starts to stalk away, but his companion steps in front of him and stops him with a gentle hand on his arm.

“Come on, now, Sherlock,” says Greg Lestrade in a low voice, his eyes full of sympathy. “I know you hate a fuss, but this really is the best way.”

“And how do you figure that?” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “After all this time working with me, Lestrade, I’d think you’d have learned something. The best place to hide is--”

“In plain sight,” Lestrade completes, patiently.

“Exactly. I’ve done some of the most creative biological research ever with standard lab supplies on a normal bench in Porton Down. Things that could change how people see nature. Things that a colleague could  _ steal _ and create an entire career around. No one had any idea what I was up to until I started to publish and blew my cover.” He’s becoming agitated now, and starts to pace. “So. Now they want me to get to Atlanta without anyone knowing. Let’s see. A ticket in business class on a major airline’s red-eye? That’s just a scientist on his way to a routine meeting. A commandeered military jet leaving before dawn, with a private bodyguard besides? That’s pretty much an advertisement for ‘something big going on.’ Tell me, should I just hold my passport over my heart to help the criminals line up their sights?”

“Business class?” Lestrade asks with a lifted eyebrow.

“Well.” Sherlock stops, looks away, and smooths his jacket. “One must have standards.”

“Of course,” Lestrade says, with only the slightest of grins. “Look. This isn’t just another mystery virus, or a clever metabolic pathway, or even a level four pathogen breach. This is--well, this is war, frankly, and we are fighting on multiple fronts. We aren’t even sure who the enemy is, and--”

“Of course we do. It’s elementary,” Sherlock sniffs.

“-- _ anyone _ on a commercial jet might--wait, really?”

“Really. There are only six countries and three non-state actors that could manage a program of this size. You and I are citizens of one, and we are standing in the other. I believe both of those can safely be discounted. It isn’t any of our major allies, because--”

“You know what?” Lestrade interrupts. “This is all above my paygrade. My job is to help you get your act together in time to meet your escort. And, as it happens, it’s really rather late, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Ugh,” Sherlock growls. “Fine. I’ll just pack, shall I?”

“Please.”

Lestrade leans against the wall and watches as Sherlock shuffles through the papers on his lab bench. “It never fails to surprise me,” he says, after a few minutes.

“What?” says Sherlock, absently.

“What a bloody slob you are. I mean, here you are, one of the leading biologists of your time--”

Sherlock looks up and narrows his eyes. _“One_ of--?”

“--and your lab bench is an absolute disaster.” Lestrade walks over and indicates the stacks of paper with a nod. “I suppose you’ll tell me you can find anything in any of these piles in less than a minute.”

Sherlock shakes his head and pulls a backpack out from under the bench. “No,” he says, as he starts to stuff some of the papers into the bag. “I’ll tell you I don’t need the papers at all.” He reaches across the desk and grabs another file. “Haven’t you ever heard me talk about the method of loci?”

“The method of--no. No, I guess I’ve missed that lecture, more’s the pity.”

“It’s a memory technique.” Sherlock leans back on the desk and crosses his arms, ignoring Lestrade’s frustrated glare. “You create a visualization for the things you need to remember, a representative image, or even a video. Then you assign them locations in some sort of mental structure. When you want to remember something, you can just go to that place in your head and retrieve the memory.”

“Oh.” Lestrade purses his lips. “Like Hannibal.”

“Like whom?”

Lestrade blinks. “Hannibal Lecter?  _ Silence of the Lambs? _ Oh, come on, you have to at least recognize the reference.”

Sherlock scratches his head, frowning. “No, no, not finding it.”

“How do you--” Lestrade shakes his head, bemused. “All right, then. What does this structure look like?”

“Oh. Well.” Sherlock turns back to his desk and busies himself. “Everyone’s is different, and the more you need to remember, the more elaborate the structure. You start off with something simple, and then build on rooms as you--”

“Sherlock. What does your structure look like?”

Sherlock gives a deep, resigned sigh. “It’s a palace.”

“Wait, what? A palace? Like, with turrets and everything?”

“Yes.”

Lestrade laughs. “So when you want to remember something, you wander through this palace, and--wait, you have to tell me. Is there a moat?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Of course there’s not a moat. It’s a palace, not a castle.”

“Oh right. My mistake. But honestly, Sherlock...I see you as more of the library type, rather than a palace. Maybe even a university. Or just a really big lab.”

Sherlock nods ruefully. “Agreed. But what I started out with didn’t have enough space, and my brother was teaching me the method, so I just started using his structure. By the time I got really good at it, it was too hard to change.”

“What was it before?”

Dropping his chin, Sherlock mumbles down toward the desk.

“Sorry, what?”

Sherlock clears his throat. “A pirate ship.” He looks up with narrowed eyes. “Do. Not. Laugh.”

Lestrade stares back with wide eyes. “I wouldn’t dare.” He can't seem to hide his smile. “But that is bloody adorable.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “That pirate ship had detailed formulas of the twenty most vicious poisons ever known etched into its wooden walls, so maybe adorable isn’t the word.”

“Whatever you say, Matey.” Lestrade looks at his watch. “We’re running low on time, though, so…”

“Fine.” Sherlock straightens up and grabs his white lab coat from the back of his stool. He rolls it up in a ball, stuffs it into the backpack, and throws the whole thing over his shoulder. “I’ve got everything I need.” 

“What, in there? What about your laptop? Where’s the formula?”

Sherlock stares at him. “Were you not listening?” He taps his head. “Mind palace, remember?”

“Wait, you’ve just, what, memorized it? Am I supposed to be comfortable with that?”

Sherlock winks. “There’s no place safer, Lestrade, and you should know that.”

Lestrade’s phone chirps, and he looks down at the screen. “Well, your escort is here, so we’d best be on with it.” He looks up at Sherlock one more time, his expression troubled. “I have to tell you, though, I’d feel a lot better knowing there was a hard copy. Just in case, you know?”

Sherlock nods. “Well, there is one. And I’ve left it in a safe place. There are clear instructions about what to do with it should I ever go missing or lose--” He gestures at his head. “Feel better?”

Lestrade’s expression clears. “Yes. Yes, I do.” He gestures toward the door. “Let’s go.”

They walk down the hall toward the elevators. Despite the late hour, a few serious-looking people in white lab coats stalk the halls, so they don’t say much. Once the elevator door closes, though, Sherlock rounds on Lestrade. “Tell me about this bodyguard.”

“Oh. Right.” Lestrade brings out his phone and slides his finger multiple times across the screen until he comes to a particular picture. He hands Sherlock the phone, and Sherlock takes it with a frown of concentration. “John Watson,” Lestrade says. “Sharpshooter, former Royal Marine, and, weirdly enough, former trauma surgeon.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up, but he says nothing. He studies the photo closely.

“He gave up his medical license last year,” Lestrade continues. “I’m not sure why, the report is classified. Not sure why he retired from the service, either.” He takes the phone back. “He does this sort of thing now, almost a security for hire arrangement. But he only works for the Army, as far as we can tell.”

“Really,” Sherlock says with a frown. “Medical man, crack shot--” he murmurs almost to himself. “And loyal, to boot, despite some unfair treatment.”

“How do you--”

Sherlock points to the phone. “That man didn’t leave the military because he wanted to, I can tell you that. Hmm,” he said, breaking into a smile. “My brother has sent me a mystery.”

The elevator door opens, and they walk quickly through the lobby and step through the automatic doors. A black car idles at the curb, and standing next to it, confident and vigilant at parade rest, is John Watson.


	3. 2:00AM to 3:00AM

John Watson looks Sherlock up and down. He’s taller than John expected. Slender, but not delicate. His hair, which John had thought from the photo was fussily styled, is actually loose and naturally curly, the color of deep mahogany. It’s overgrown, maybe, but looking at him, John thinks that’s probably due more from a lack of attention than any wish to look romantic. He does, though, John thinks with faint surprise. Look romantic, that is. He’s pale, as though he’s spent too much time over a microscope and not enough time in the beautiful California outdoors. And god, he looks young. Ridiculously young, actually, for the responsibility he now carries.

“Doctor Holmes,” John says, holding out his hand in solemn greeting.

Sherlock looks down at his hand briefly, and then looks up to meet John’s eyes. John almost gasps. Sherlock’s eyes are a pale silver-green, ghostly and beautiful, but what really strikes John is the intelligence in those eyes, the fierce curiosity that in this moment is focused solely on him. It’s stunning. And then Sherlock takes his hand and smiles, a bright, lovely thing that is completely unexpected, and for just a moment, John knows what it feels like to be drowning. He’s never met anyone who strikes him as so  _ present. _

“Captain Watson,” Sherlock says, and John’s knees nearly buckle from the resonance of that baritone. He hadn’t seen that coming, either.

It occurs to him, through the roaring in his ears, that he should probably get himself under control. This is a mission, he tells himself firmly, and it’s past time they should get underway. He clears his throat and tips his head toward the car. “Ready?”

Sherlock hums his assent and starts to reach for the door handle, but his escort holds up a hand. “Give us a moment, Captain,” the man says, and something in his eyes suggests it would be a good idea to comply. John looks briefly to Sherlock, who merely shrugs. John nods and slips into the car.

John adjusts the side mirror and watches the two men in the reflection. Despite the flippancy of a moment ago, Sherlock listens to the man earnestly, leaning in closely to catch every word. John frowns and reaches for his phone. He flips through Sherlock’s file and finds the photo: Gregory Lestrade. Not a scientist, apparently, not law enforcement, and (he swipes across the screen a couple more times) not private security. In fact, the man’s dossier is disturbingly vague. John scowls and slips the phone back into his pocket, thinking hard. Nothing makes him more edgy than missing intel. The man appears harmless, and he clearly has Sherlock’s confidence, but it’s his job to be suspicious. He watches as Lestrade squeezes Sherlock’s arm one last time in farewell. Oh, yes, he’ll be looking into this man as soon as he’s able.

Sherlock quirks a half smile at Lestrade and turns to the car. John hurriedly looks away, but not before catching Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror. He squirms briefly with the disquieting feeling that Sherlock knew he was watching all the while. Focus, he says to himself. It’s time to get started.

Sherlock gracefully slips into the back seat of the car, and they pull away from the curb. John turns a quarter turn to make sure Sherlock can hear him.

“Right.” He lifts his chin toward Mike. “This is Corporal Mike Stamford, and--”

“Sergeant,” interrupts Stamford with a grin.

John blinks. “You don’t say.” He reaches over and punches Stamford lightly in the arm. “Nicely done, you wanker.”

Stamford shrugs but is smiling, clearly pleased. 

John turns back to find Sherlock avidly watching this exchange. “Anyway, this is Sergeant Mike Stamford, and while I would trust him with my life, he hasn’t been cleared for this mission. We can talk specifics at the base,” he says crisply, back to all business. “However, there are a few things I need to know.”

Sherlock nods. “By all means.”

John indicates the backpack. “All right. First. What’s in the bag?”

Sherlock blinks in surprise. “Why?”

“Because I am supposed to be protecting you, and by extension, your property, especially if it relates to this mission. If I am going to be called on to die in the service of that backpack, I’d like to know what’s in it.”

“Oh.” Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I’d say nothing worth risking your life over.”

John lifts an eyebrow. “Such as…”

“Well.” Sherlock frowns. "There’s some reference material I thought I’d need. Conversion tables and half life charts, that kind of thing. Um--” Sherlock unzips the bag and peers inside. “I brought a calculator.”

John stares, bemused. “A calculator.”

Sherlock nods. “Yes. I can do most of the calculations I need in my head, but calculators do save time when you’re in a hurry.” He slides the bag down between his legs to rest on the floor and shuffles through the contents. “I brought a couple of journals to read on the flight. Hmm, and my portable mobile charger. And some mints.” He slowly lifts his eyes to meet John’s over the seat. “So, you see, Captain. Nothing worth dying for.”

“And your--formula? All your data?”

Sherlock’s gaze narrows. “Safe and sound, and not in this bag.”

John registers the intensity of that gaze, and blinks. “Very well,” he says slowly. “But I have to say, that bag looks pretty stuffed for that to be all there is.”

“Yes, well. Nonetheless.” Sherlock says with a shrug. John nods slowly and turns back toward the windshield.

A quiet minute passes.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock asks.

John looks up from his phone. “Oh. Sorry. Travis Air Force Base, up by Fairfield.”

“Oh. Right. Thank you.” Sherlock pauses. “I have no idea where that is.”

John chuckles. “About an hour away at night, with a madman like Stamford driving.”

“Ah. I see. Again, thank you.” 

“No problem.”

Sherlock stares at the back of his head. “All right, I brought a lab coat,” he says after another minute.

John looks back over his shoulder. “A what?”

“A lab coat. That’s why the bag looks so full.”

“Wait, like an actual lab coat?”

“Well, yes.”

“I see,” John says slowly. “And they don’t have lab coats at the CDC?”

Sherlock looks out the window. “I’m sure they do,” he says, and John can tell he’s wishing he hadn’t brought it up.

“So--”

“I just grabbed it. I wasn’t thinking. It’s not important.” He starts to blush, and won’t meet John’s eyes. 

“Oh.” John turns around just a little more. “Why did you bring it then? Wait. It there something special about it?”

Sherlock’s gaze snaps to John’s face and sharpens. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, there is.” John swallows a smile. “You brought your lucky lab coat. Of course. Does it have your name embroidered on it?”

Sherlock glares. “I fail to see why--”

“Oh, come on. It has your name on, doesn’t it.”

Sherlock stares a moment longer, and then his gaze drops to the floor. “Maybe.”

John nods, the smile still flirting with the corners of his lips. “Well, I’ll do my best to protect it.” He turns back toward the front. “I’ve spent enough time in hospitals and army bases to know you never discount the power of a lucky charm.”

“Well.” Sherlock clears his throat. “I appreciate your understanding.”

They ride along in silence for a couple of minutes.

“It’s like your dog tags,” Sherlock finally says.

John starts, and spares a moment to wonder if anyone ever gets used to that voice. “Sorry, what?”

“They’re your lucky charm.”

“Oh.” John frowns. “No, they’re not.”

“Really?” Sherlock leans back with evident surprise. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure, yup.”

Sherlock scowls.”But that doesn’t make any sense,” he murmurs, as if to himself.

“I don’t understand. Why would you think that?”

Sherlock clears his throat. “You’re wearing them right now, and by the tan lines on your neck, I know you wear them all the time. You’re not on active duty any longer, and while California traffic is utterly terrifying, the freeways don’t count as combat zones. Yet, you still wear your tags.” He shrugs. “I had it down as superstition. Am I wrong?”

John takes a deep breath and then turns back to Sherlock, searching his face for a long moment. Sherlock looks back, obviously curious. There’s no malice or judgment in his eyes, John realizes, he’s just asking.

“They aren’t lucky. Not at all,” he says. “They’re meant to help identify your remains if your body is damaged beyond recognition. Nothing in that scenario counts as ‘lucky,’ really.” John turns back to face the windshield, and his voice goes flat. “And as far as recognizing the battle ground--I learned a long time ago that nowhere is safe.”

Sherlock blinks once, and then again in confusion. “I see,” he says, though it’s clear he doesn’t see at all. “Then--you think of yourself as still on duty. Still at risk. Correct?”

John digs his nails into the seat next to him as he presses his lips together. He looks out the window at the landscape blurring past, but doesn’t answer.

It’s an uncomfortable few minutes of riding along, until Stamford clears his throat.

“So, Dr. Holmes. What’s your poison? Football or rugby?”


	4. 3:00AM to 4:00AM

Sherlock blinks.

“Excuse me?”

Stamford glances over at John with a lifted eyebrow. “I was asking, do you follow any sports?”

“Oh. No.” Sherlock shakes his head. “No time. My career is very demanding.” He turns to look out the window. “Besides, sports are boring,” he says casually.

“Boring?” Stamford seems incredulous. “You think sports--you think  _ rugby _ is boring?”

“Yes.” Sherlock studies his nails. “A group of fit men in tight shorts stand in a large circle with their arms around each other’s necks, grunting at each other while flailing at an awkwardly shaped ball with their feet, while the spectators scream at what, I have no idea, since no one can see anything. Then someone runs and everyone hits him.” He lifts his hands and shrugs. “I’m sad to say I don’t see the appeal.”

Even in the relative darkness of the car, Sherlock can see that Stamford has turned a bright shade of red. Even better, though, John’s shoulders have eased, just a little. John throws an amused glance Mike’s way and shifts to again face the two of them. “All right, Mike, leave off,” he says with a resigned chuckle. “It’s not the man’s fault he was raised without an appreciation of the finer things.”

Sherlock turns to John with an exaggerated look of offense, but John shoots him a quick shake of the head and a sly smile. Sherlock feels his heart rate pick up. He tells himself it’s because he’s being let in on a joke for once, and truthfully, it  _ is _ a nice feeling. He takes a second to collect the memory and stores it in the sitting room of his memory palace. He saves every new emotion he encounters. After all, people aren’t always predictable, and comparative data is always helpful when navigating social situations. He’s been told this is everything from sinister to sad, so he’s stopped trying to explain it.

John coughs, and Sherlock realizes he’s been staring. John doesn’t seem embarrassed or put off, though, just amused. “Back to work for a minute, Professor.” John holds out his hand. “Let me see your phone.”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, but hands it over.

John holds up the mobile. “All right, first rule: never give  _ anyone _ your phone, no matter how nicely they ask. You’ve just given me access to your entire life, right here.”

Sherlock snorts. “You can’t possibly think I’m stupid enough to put personal data on a mobile phone.”

“You don’t have to,” John says, as he starts to tap on the screen. “Phone contacts, text conversations in progress, GPS data…” He scowls, tapping in earnest now. “Anyone who wants to can extrapolate what they need to know.” After another minute, he looks up with a look of surprise. “Your phone is encrypted.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes. Very.”

John narrows his eyes and goes back to his tapping. “This is what, three level security?” 

“Four, if you include that all of the sign-in instructions are in Icelandic.” Sherlock grins. “It’s fairly effective. I’ve only met two scientists from Iceland, and both were geologists. They couldn’t have cared less what was on my phone.”

“And how many terrorists have you met from Iceland?” John asks sharply, not looking up from the phone.

Sherlock’s smile fades. “None that could get through the chemical formulas that serve as passwords for the second level, Captain.”

John works at the phone for a while longer. Finally he huffs and hands it back. “Not bad,” he says. “I didn’t realize Porton Down has such decent security.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Oh, this isn’t the lab. That security is rubbish,” he says ruefully. “This is all down to my brother.”

“Your brother?” John asks cautiously.

“Yes.” Sherlock leans back and crosses his legs. “Have you met him?”

“Don’t think so, no. Should I anticipate the pleasure?”

“Hmm. Pleasure probably isn’t the word.” Sherlock tilts his head. “You must have at least talked to him. Arrogant sod, always in a terrible hurry, sounds like he’s trying to out-posh the Queen...ring any bells?”

“Oh.” John blinks. “The man who called me. I thought he sounded like a million pounds worth of ego wrapped in a two thousand pound suit. Not easily impressed, that man. But we weren’t on the phone for more than a minute.”

“Ah, you got lucky then.” Sherlock nods. “The shorter your conversations with Mycroft, the better off you are. Interesting, though,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “Despite such brief contact, you’ve apparently passed his test.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Simple.” Sherlock spreads his hands to indicate the car. “Here we are.”

John shrugs. “Well, that’s all lovely, but I don’t have time to worry about your brother.”

Sherlock draws in a deep breath. “Spare a moment if you can, Captain,” he says quietly. “He’s the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet. I’d hate for you to regret this mission.” He leans forward, suddenly intent. “You might still have time to reconsider your involvement with me.”

John considers him for a long moment. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me.”

“With all due respect, you’ll have to discuss it on the plane, gentlemen,” Stamford cuts in. The car slows, and Stamford nods toward the exit sign. “We’re here.”

Sherlock looks out the window. Travis Air Force Base looks like every military base he’s ever seen: ugly buildings painted the same shade of bland, separated by slabs of pavement with grass shooting up from the cracks. Despite the early hour, the streets are fully lit in that particular shade of sickly military yellow. The men in the guard booths are grim and determined. The signs employ American terms and there’s an alarming prevalence of stucco, but otherwise he could be home at Porton Down, tying up a fifteen-hour day and heading to his flat for a few hours of sleep.

This wasn’t what he expected when he came to California, he thinks. He had hoped to see some new research techniques and maybe test drive some new equipment. He’d have to talk to people, he'd known, but statistically, at least one or two of them should have been tolerable company. He’d figured he'd eat too-salty American food, do some too-loud American shopping, and maybe (he’d hoped, when alone in his silent flat at night), he’d meet a nice, boring American man for a few hours of pleasure and unspoken comfort. He hadn’t expected to be called to duty, he hadn’t expected all this flurry to action, and above all, he hadn’t expected John Watson.

The guard at the front gate scans Stamford’s ID pass, makes quick eye contact with John, and then nods them through. It’s obvious they are expected. John is tense again, his head moving slowly from side to side in a careful sweep. Sherlock ignores the buildings passing outside the window, and watches him instead. This should be the safest they’ve been, relatively speaking, and Sherlock wonders what has put him so fully on alert.

They drive a few more minutes and then turn a corner to emerge onto the main airport concourse. On the runway, a sleek Learjet is idling, the Air Force insignia clearly etched on the tail. Sherlock notes the armed guards surrounding the plane and the complete lack of any other aircraft in the area. They aren’t taking any chances. It occurs to him that this is all for his safety, to protect  _ him, _ and a thrill of fear runs through his body. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. John must hear him, because when Sherlock opens his eyes, John has turned and is watching him with grave blue eyes. “All right?” he murmurs, and when Sherlock answers with a brief nod, John gives him a reassuring smile. It helps, Sherlock thinks with surprise, as John turns around and resumes his visual sweep of the area.

As the car glides to a stop at the edge of the tarmac, the door of the jet opens and the stairs are pushed out. A man in a British pilot’s uniform with the insignia of a Colonel steps out onto the top step. Sherlock sees John freeze, and hears the sharp curse he makes under his breath.

“Sebastian Moran,” John grinds out between his teeth, and Sherlock can’t help but notice that he unconsciously reaches for his gun.


	5. 4:00AM to 5:00AM

John is surprised to feel the reassuring shape of his gun under his fingers. He hadn’t realized he was reaching for it, but he has to admit it makes him feel better to know it’s there.

Sebastian Bloody Moran. This is not good. And on today, of all days. Christ, he hopes this is a coincidence. 

He pastes on a smile as he steps out of the car. “Colonel!” he says as Moran approaches, holding out his hand and sliding to one side to block Moran's view of Sherlock at the same time. “It’s been a long time.”

Moran looks at his hand without taking it, and then back at his face, eyebrow raised. “I doubt that breaks your heart.”

John smirks and drops his hand. “You got me. I haven’t missed you in the least.”

Moran chuckles. “Ah, John. I’ve missed your honesty. It always was so refreshing.” He makes a quick feint to the side and narrows his eyes as Sherlock steps from the car. “That’s him, then? The guardian of the civilized world? Huh. They told me this was a counterterrorism operation. Doesn’t really look the type, does he?” 

Moran starts to walk around the car toward Sherlock, but John steps forward and stops him with one hand to the chest. He puts steel into his stare, and ice into his voice. “Hey, here’s an idea; why don’t you just fly the plane, and leave the rest to me? There’s a good lad.”

Moran looks down at John’s hand and takes a half-step back, curling his lip. Without a word, he turns and stalks back to the plane. John watches him, another curse slipping from his lips.

He’s still staring after Moran when Sherlock steps up beside him. “What was that?” Sherlock asks quietly, and John takes a moment to be grateful for Sherlock’s discretion.

However, he does have to admit it’s a fair question. “That was the trail of slime known as Colonel Sebastian Moran,” John answers, careful to keep his face impassive. “We have a history.”

“You don’t say,” Sherlock says, with a sideways glance and a half smile.

John glances back and lets a brief flash of grin break through. He thumps on the roof of the car and moves around to the back as Stamford pops the trunk. “Listen, I don’t like this,” he says under his breath, the grin gone. “Moran in the mix, no matter which side he’s on, is never good news.” he says as he picks up his duffel. He slams the trunk and pauses, leaning a little closer to Sherlock. “Keep your eyes open, all right?” he murmurs, searching Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock blinks once. “Yes, fine, but for what?” he asks. “This sort of thing...” He gestures at the plane. “Hardly my area.”

John frowns. “I know. And it’s not like I’m a pilot, either. I know my way around a plane, but--Christ.” He rubs one hand down his face. “I’m not thrilled to have to fly with the man, but we’re running out of time.” He sighs. “Hopefully the co-pilot isn’t one of his. And he was cleared of all the charges, so it’s not like I have a reason to challenge the assignment, anyway,” he continues, almost to himself.

Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, charges?” he asks, louder now. “What the hell--”

“Shhh,” John whispers, glancing around quickly. There's no one close by, thank god. “It’s fine, all right? Don’t worry. Just--” he shrugs. “Watch your back. Don’t let your guard down. And let me know if there’s anything that doesn’t seem right.”

Sherlock nods, a scowl on his face. “I’m not letting this go, you know.”

John rolls his eyes. “Not now, OK? We really need to get going. Just get your bag.”

Sherlock turns away just enough to show him the backpack thrown over his shoulder. “Good to go. Just promise me one thing.”

“Fine. What?”

“Try to give me some lead time if I have to exchange my backpack for a parachute.” Sherlock quirks one side of his mouth. “I’ll need a minute to get my lucky lab coat on.”

It takes him a moment to catch on, but then, despite his anxiety, John chuckles. “I’ll do my best.” 

John leans over and gives Stamford a wave through the window, and as the car drives away, he takes Sherlock by the arm and escorts him to the foot of the stairs. “Stay here,” he murmurs, and as Sherlock nods his understanding, John starts walking around the plane. He checks the fuselage and under the wings, peering closely at the tires and staring at the tail for several long moments. He stops to talk to the guards, who answer his questions readily. Nothing seems alarming, except for the pilot. He stops and stares up at the cockpit window. It’s a quick flight, he reasons. It should only take three hours in this plane, give or take. And this mission is being closely monitored by the two countries’ worth of army brass, Congress, Parliament, the President, and hell, probably the Queen, not to mention the scary brother Sherlock had mentioned. There will be a co-pilot, and surely they’ll help keep things on the up and up. Moran had been selected for this assignment with care, and he had to know he was being closely watched. John closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. Surely it would all be fine. 

Still, he thinks, he’ll stay on constant watch. He’s been chosen for this job for his experience, after all, and his history with Moran has taught him not to lower his guard. He’ll need to stay alert and focused. He hopes there will be coffee on the plane.

With that thought in mind, he starts to walk toward the stairs, and Sherlock, who is watching him with a concerned expression. John feels a tinge of regret about worrying him. He knows the man probably has no field experience, and that’s a concern. However, after the bit about the dogtags, John has started to realize that Sherlock doesn’t miss much. It won’t hurt to have another set of eyes on the scene, even if the observer isn’t entirely sure what he’s observing.

John indicates that Sherlock should board with a lift of his chin and follows him into the small cabin. After a moment’s hesitation, John escorts Sherlock to the middle row of seats and sits down in the front. Normally he would set himself up in the back for a clear view of both fore and aft, but something tells him to stay between Sherlock and Moran. There’s nothing in the cabin that appears to be out of the ordinary, but John’s eyes linger over the emergency exits with an extra bit of care.

Satisfied for the moment, and with not a little regret, he pulls his gun out of his shoulder holster and slides it carefully into his duffel bag. It’s not worth taking the risk of letting it get loose in a pressurized cabin, though he hesitates before sliding the zipper. He places it under his seat and resumes his survey of their surroundings. Sherlock, he notes, is sitting very still and watching him closely. Good, he thinks. If there’s a problem, he hopes Sherlock will just follow his cues.

The cockpit door opens, and Moran steps out. It’s been a long time since he’s seen him, John thinks, but Moran hasn’t really changed at all: he's still all swagger and sneer under hair that's been blown dry and coated with too much product. He had been a good marksman, John remembers, almost as good as John was, and John wonders if he’s kept up at the range. It would be just fine if he hadn’t, all things considered.

Moran stretches and grins, a cold stretch of thin lips. It’s only a couple of steps from the cockpit to the seats, and John grits his teeth as Moran draws closer.

Moran stops right next to John’s seat and looks down at Sherlock. “Your man here is being very protective of you, Dr Holmes,” he says, and John’s skin crawls at his tone. “I suppose I can see why.” His eyes sweep Sherlock’s long frame. “You’re just his type. Like taking orders, don’t you. Just as much as you like taking his--”

“We’re on a tight schedule, Colonel,” John interrupts, teeth bared, his hand again drifting toward the holster under his jacket. 

“The co-pilot is checking the weather report.” Moran sniffs. “Anyway, we’d be in the air by now if you hadn’t had to do your little parade of testosterone out there. Tell me, did everything check out, Captain? Oh, wait. That’s not right. What was it the team called you--Doc? Oh dear, that’s not quite right either, is it? Not anymore.” 

“Agent Watson will do,” John says, and he feels his heart rate starting to rise. Damn it. He doesn’t need this bullshit, not right now, not when he’s responsible for someone else and isn’t free to settle things with his fists. 

“Is that what he has you call him?” Moran says sweetly, fluttering his eyelashes at Sherlock. “It’s not very butch, is it.”

Sherlock looks confused, but John is beginning to feel the dangerous clarity that comes when he’s under attack.

“I’m not a showy guy, Colonel. You know that. I’m just highly effective.” John smiles tightly and makes a show of checking his watch. “It’d be a shame if we were late getting into Atlanta. I’m sure our driver has already reported what time he dropped us off. So many people are waiting for Dr Holmes, you see. So many  _ important  _ people.” 

Moran huffs. “Well, there’s no worry there. I’ve got a fast jet, and no cargo--we’ll be there with time to spare. I’ll leave you gents to it, then,” he says, turning slowly toward the cockpit. “If you get hungry, there are snacks in the galley. Oh, and I made sure to have them make tea. I know how you Brits are, and of course…” he stops and turns to wink at Sherlock. “It’s important to stay hydrated when you’re a mile high.”

John growls, flushing scarlet. “That’s enough, Colonel.”

Moran smirks. “Right you are. Prechecks clear?”

John jerks a nod. “Security clear. You?”

“Ops clear.”

“Then get this bloody plane off the ground.”

Once the door is sealed, it’s a quick taxi to the runway, and a smooth takeoff into the dark night. Sherlock looks out the window at the faint lights as they fly over the city and San Francisco Bay, but John keeps his eyes locked on the cockpit door.

It’s an easy flight, for thirty minutes or so.


	6. 5:00AM to 6:00AM

“We’re making good time, if that map is correct,” Sherlock says, pointing to the display screen at the front of the cabin.

John glances at it. “Hmm. Seems like.” He stands and stretches with obvious relish. “No turbulence, either.” He walks the few steps to the galley and brings back two cups of tea. Sherlock takes one with a smile of thanks, and John sits back down in his seat, body angled directly toward the cockpit door.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is pitched low and barely carries over the seats. 

John doesn’t look back. “Yes?”

Sherlock glares at the back of his head, exasperated, before unbuckling his seatbelt and moving quickly to flop into the second seat in the front row. John starts, but then nods in welcome and goes back to staring straight ahead.

“John,” Sherlock says again, following his gaze to the door. “You have to tell me. What did he do?”

John glances at him from the corner of his eye, and Sherlock watches as he works his jaw. “I told you,” John says after a minute. “He was cleared.”

“Yes, well, cleared and innocent are two different things.” Sherlock leans in closer. “You obviously don’t trust him.”

John sighs. “No, I don’t. Like I said, we have a history. But it doesn’t matter. All he has to do is get us to Atlanta, and he  _ is _ a good pilot.”

Sherlock looks at him expectantly. “But there is a story, and I want to hear it.”

“You don’t. You really don’t.”

“John.” Sherlock leans a bit closer. “Come on now. Tell me.”

“No.”

Sherlock huffs, frustrated. “You know you’re going to tell me eventually.”

John blinks, still staring at the door. “Do I,” he says, and it’s not a question.

Still, Sherlock takes it as one. “Absolutely,” he says. “You might as well get it over with.”

John laughs once and finally looks at him directly. “You probably shouldn’t know there’s even an issue, all right? And this--” He indicates the cabin. “--is far from the safest place to discuss it, anyway.”

Sherlock hums. “Fine. Just give me a clue. I’ll figure it out on my own.”

“Sherlock, I…”

“Look,” Sherlock cuts in. “We are forty thousand feet above the earth in a pressurized metal tube that is under the technical command of someone who made you curse twice in less than five minutes.” He puts on a little pout. “To tell you the truth, I’m feeling a little vulnerable right now. This anxiety is very upsetting and I don’t handle uncertainty well at all. It’s distracting me from my important mission.”

John stares at him. “That’s--incredibly manipulative.”

Sherlock shrugs. “A bit, maybe. Did it work?”

John stares a minute more before he starts to laugh. “Yeah, okay. I can give you an idea, I suppose.” He shifts in his seat, and his voice drops. “Moran is, or was...um. He had a team, and they were tied up in some bad stuff. Black market, that kind of thing. You know?”

Sherlock scowls. “You’re being purposely vague.”

“Yes, and as it happens, it’s for your own--”

The cockpit door creaks open. “Shit,” John hisses.

“That’s three,” Sherlock whispers back, as he turns to face it.

Moran steps through the doorway and stops short when he sees them together. “Oh, that’s so cute,” he croons. “Cuddling your way across the country.”

John subtly shifts even closer to Sherlock, but Sherlock stays perfectly still. “Things going well, then?” John asks, sounding just distant enough to stay on the bored side of polite.

Sherlock swallows down a smirk. He’s beginning to think John is a bit of an arsehole, and as a general rule, he admires that in a person.

“Oh, yeah,” Moran says with a big, patently fake smile. “Easy as Sunday morning. Did you find the tea?” He turns to the galley. 

Once he can’t see them, John clutches Sherlock’s hand and shakes his head firmly. “Don’t drink anything he gives you,” he mouths.

Sherlock doesn’t have time to reply, as Moran reemerges from the small kitchen, two cups in his hands. “It’s American tea, but it’s better than nothing, right?” He hands them each a cup. “Bottoms up, Dr Holmes.”

Sherlock takes a quick peek at John, but John gives nothing away, so Sherlock lifts his cup in thanks. “Cheers,” he says, and brings the cup down to hold it in his lap.

Moran lifts his eyebrows. “Not thirsty?”

“Not right now. John got me some a few minutes ago.”

“Aw. He takes good care of you. Isn’t that right, John?” Moran rests his hand along the back of Sherlock’s chair, and it takes every gram of self control in his body for Sherlock not to shiver. “Can’t blame you, though. After all, this guy’s a big deal. At least, I have to assume so. It’s not every night I get called to the airfield after midnight and handed the keys to a C21. I haven’t flown one of these beauties in years.” He looks fondly around the cabin. “It’s a treat, I’ll tell you.”

“I’m so happy for you,” John says in a flat voice, with a straight face.

Moran’s dreamy gaze snaps to John and sharpens. “Oh, right back at you,  _ Agent _ Watson,” Moran says. “This is an important operation, obviously, and here you are, in the thick of it. God, you must be loving this. The instrument of your redemption has been delivered to your door, and it comes in a package that looks like this.” Moran gives Sherlock a lascivious glance, and Sherlock can’t help but flush under it.

“So tell me, John. You can trust me,” Moran continues. “What happens when you get to Atlanta? I know Stretch here is important cargo, but what’s he going to  _ do?" _

John smiles, but it’s a feral thing. He’s tense, but conveys a sense of readiness rather than anxiety. It’s captivating, Sherlock thinks, and then blinks, surprised. John manages to glance at him and then back to Moran before Sherlock can draw another breath.

“It’s really nothing for you to worry about,” John answers pleasantly. “You should probably head back to the cockpit now.”

“Nah, the co-pilot’s got it under control.” Moran checks his watch. “Smooth, like I said. Just like our boy here likes it. Couldn’t make it better myself. Besides…it’s more interesting back here,” he croons, and moves to run a finger down Sherlock’s cheek.

With a sudden movement, John bats him off. Moran shifts back, looking slightly surprised.

“Oh, come now, John,” he says. “You’re not really going to fight for him.”

“It’s the brief,” John says tightly.

“Then you’re a fool,” Moran shoots back. “There’s a bounty on that pretty head. You should just get the hell out of the way.”

Sherlock looks between the two of them, puzzled. “A bounty?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Moran says, watching John closely. “Serious people are willing to spend serious money for a piece of you, honeybun.”

“That’s enough, Moran,” John says firmly. 

“Oh, not even close,” Moran sneers. “You know, John, you’d know about these things if you’d leverage your skills to some real buyers, and quit wasting your time on this Queen and country shit.”

John shakes his head. “Not interested,” he says firmly.

“Of course not,” Moran scoffs. “You’re more interested in kissing up to the team that kicked you out. What’s the phrase? The sad Don Quixote of a worthless purpose? It’s pathetic, really. They threw you away, and you just keep crawling back.”

John rises to his feet. “You of all people know what really happened with--back then.”

Moran laughs and spreads his hands. “I know you killed one of your own. One of  _ us. _ That’s all anyone needs to know.”

John sniffs once, hard, and clenches his fists. “Last chance, Colonel. Go back into the cockpit, take your seat, and get us safely to Atlanta.”

Moran rolls his eyes. “Hmm, no, I don’t think so. Atlanta is miserable this time of year.” He checks his watch. “I probably do need to head back up front, though. The co-pilot will need a break soon.” He smiles a cold smile. “The sedative I gave him should start kicking in any time now.”

Sherlock gasps, and Moran looks around John to give him a sweet, almost gentle smile. “Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart. I saved some for you, too. Rohypnol. You’ll love it. Have a swig of that tea and see what you think of it. You won’t remember a thing.” He licks his lips. ”After all, it’s a long drive to the compound.”

Sherlock flinches as John swings suddenly, a solid left hook. Seemingly caught off guard, Moran reels from the blow. The two men fall, grappling and grunting, fists flying. Moran briefly gains the advantage, holding John to the floor and landing two hard blows, but John manages to drive a knee up into Moran’s chest and force him back. He falls hard, giving John just enough time to get to his feet. 

Moran stands and wipes the blood from his mouth with one hand. “You idiot,” he rasps. “You can’t possibly expect to win.”

John broadens his stance and lifts his fists. Blood is flowing freely down his temple, but he just smiles a rage-filled smile. “Try me,” he sniffs. 

Moran huffs and starts to run at John, but Sherlock stretches out and grabs at him recklessly. He manages to grab Moran’s arm, which forces him to spin around and stumble, losing his momentum. He shouts in indignation, and just as he lifts his fists--

The plane lurches. 

Sherlock is tossed to the side, and bumps his shoulder hard against the bulkhead. John and Moran are thrown forward, colliding with the bulkhead and each other. Both struggle to the cockpit door, and one of them manages to pull it open.

Sherlock glances quickly out the window. It’s pitch black, of course, but the sound of the engines and the increased pressure on his body suggest that the plane is entering an uncontrolled descent. The oxygen masks, he thinks. Where are the oxygen masks? And a moment later, he realizes they won’t drop until there’s a drop in cabin pressure, which means a break in the fuselage.

Which, from the creaks and groans of the joints, seems imminent.

Sherlock shakes his head and tries to focus. John and Moran are fighting at the cockpit door, and he struggles to his feet and looks around wildly for a weapon, something heavy, some way to help. Frustration surges through him. “Fuck!” he yells.

Moran, startled by the outburst, jerks his head over to look in Sherlock's direction. John takes advantage of his brief moment of his distraction, and with a quick, fierce motion, grabs the back of his head and drives it into the wall next to the door. 

Moran falls to the ground.

“Perfect timing,” John says, as he steps over Moran into the cockpit and slides into the captain’s seat. Sherlock follows him to the door. The co-pilot is slumped in his seat, but Sherlock notes that he’s still breathing. That’s good, he thinks distantly, and in the next moment, he realizes he might be going into some kind of shock. John, though. John is calm and in control, looking quickly over the instrument panels and taking hold of the wheel.

“You know, what I could use now is a little advice.”

Sherlock points with a shaking hand. “That’s the radio, right?”

John glances up quickly and flips the switch up and down. “No good,” he says after a few tries. “It’s locked to receive, but not send.” He flips the red switch next to it, but nothing happens. “Emergency signal is down, too.” John shakes his head, frowning. “Bastard must have rigged it right before he came back to the cabin.”

Sherlock swallows. “They’re watching us, though, right? The government? They’ll see that something’s wrong.” He hears the quiver in his voice, and he supposes that’s part of the shock experience as well. It’s not pleasant, really, not at all, but it is rather interesting. He automatically starts to store the feeling in his mind palace, but John glances over at him sharply, and then again almost immediately, and Sherlock’s thinking shudders to a stop. Sherlock must look a fright, because John’s eyes soften and grow full of concern.

Shit. We are going to die, thinks Sherlock, but he finds he can’t say a word.

John’s voice, when he speaks, is gentle, but his words are honest. “They probably aren’t watching every second. We’re trying to keep you under the radar, after all. It might take some time for command to realize something’s wrong.” John glances out of the corner of his eye, toward Moran’s body. “Well played, arsehole,” he mutters. “Listen, Sherlock, I need your help. Can you stand?”

Sherlock takes a full second to realize that question is intended for him, and another to realize that somehow, he is in fact sitting on the floor, supporting his head against the wall in the hallway. He didn’t remember deciding to do that. “Yes,” he manages. “What do you need?”

John jerks his head toward Moran. “Make sure he’s out for good, will you? I don’t want to have to worry about him.”

“Oh. Right,” Sherlock answers, and drags himself over to crouch next to Moran’s body. He puts two fingers to his neck, frowns, and tries again. 

_"Warning, warning,"_ a mechanical voice starts to drone. _"Altitude alert._ _Pull up. Pull up."_

Sherlock suddenly rears back from Moran, aghast. “John, I...I think he’s  _ dead." _

John wraps his hands more tightly around the controls and draws in a deep breath.

“Well, Sherlock, if I can’t figure this out, we will be too.” John looks over at him and, inexplicably, wonderfully,  _ winks. _ “Grab a seat, mate, and buckle in. We’re coming in fast.”


	7. 6:00AM to 7:00AM

After checking their altitude and speed, John chances a quick look over his shoulder. He’s worried by what he sees: Sherlock is standing frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. His already pale skin is now nearly white, and his hands are shaking. It looks as though he’s almost panting.

_Shit._ John can’t reach over to check his pulse, but Sherlock looks like a man going into shock. He needs attention, but John hasn’t got the time.

“Sherlock?” John asks, as gently as he can but loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the whining engines. “I need you to go back and sit down. Just put on your seatbelt and try to relax. All right? Can you do that for me?” John’s voice is beginning to shake from the vibration of the yoke up his arms, but he just grips the handles a bit tighter and smiles calmly over his shoulder. “Sherlock. Go sit down. Please.”

Sherlock blinks. “You’re going to land the plane,” he says, sounding dazed.

John takes another look at his pale face and now trembling lips and foregoes several cocky quips. “Yes,” he says simply.

“You don’t have a radio.”

“No…” John takes a deep breath. Calm, he has to stay calm. Sherlock looks like he could shatter at any moment. “But this isn’t my first time flying, you know.” He sends over another confident smile.

Sherlock blinks again. “Is this your first time landing?” His voice is thin.

_ Damn it. _ “Well, yes. But it’s going to be all right. Just please, Sherlock, go sit down.”

Sherlock’s eyes shift toward the co-pilot, still slumped in his seat. “Safer in the cockpit.”

John’s brow furrows. “Sorry, what?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I’ll have a better chance surviving a crash landing in the cockpit.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m...not sure.” Sherlock shakes his head, as if to clear it. “The cockpit in any jet is designed to protect the pilots and ensure their survival. I must have read that once and thought the information might be valuable some day.”

John bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh. It’s not really funny, but Sherlock is so damn _ smart. _  “Well, here we are.”

Sherlock only nods.

After a moment of consideration, John shrugs. “Go on, then,” he says. “Can you move him to the jump seat? Strap him in, and then take the co-pilot’s spot. We’ve got some things to figure out.”

John reaches over with one hand and unbuckles the co-pilot’s flight harness. He’s gotten the plane’s altitude stablilized, and that’s a relief, but he’ll feel better once they’re on the ground. Sherlock moves further into the tight space and grips the co-pilot under the shoulders, and now that he’s closer, John looks him over once again. Sherlock’s expression is grim, he notes. His lips are pressed tightly together, and his brow is furrowed. He’s tense; his shoulders are tightened up to somewhere around his ears. But his color is better, and his hands appear steady. He needed something to do, John realizes. He needs to keep moving. Interesting, for a man who makes his living with his brain. If they survive this, he’ll have to think about that.

_ When _ they survive this, John tells himself. He can’t admit any other option.

Sherlock gets the co-pilot safely belted into the jump seat, breathing a little hard after his exertion. He closes the cockpit door and fastens the lock. The co-pilot’s seat is a tight fit for his long legs, but he manages to get settled and fastens the harness. Then he joins John in looking out the window into the pre-dawn sky.

“Oh,” says Sherlock. “Damn. It’s still dark out there.”

John nods toward the east. “Sun’s coming up now,” he says. “But yeah, I’d be happy with a little more light.”

“Which airport are you aiming for?”

John winces. “Yeah, about that. I’ve been thinking.” He nods back toward the cockpit door and the hallway behind them. “Moran was a prick, but he was a lazy prick. He wouldn’t have done all this on his own. I would wager there’s a team waiting somewhere within quick flying distance, maybe even multiple teams at different airports. Just a couple of guys he could trust to handle the heavy lifting, drivers and what not. He wouldn’t have pushed the issue with us if he hadn’t been ready to get things started, so his people must be fairly close by.”

“I see,” Sherlock says slowly. “So any airport close enough for us to reach…”

“...could end up being a trap, yeah.” John checks the gauges. “We’ve got enough fuel to make Atlanta, but chances are his people are watching for some kind of sign. If we stay on course, they’ll know something went wrong. Apologies to your delicate ego, but you’re kind of a big deal. If Moran’s plan fails, it’s possible--”

“They’ll come after us.” Sherlock leans his head back and lets out a long breath. “Bloody hell.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Sherlock looks over to him. “So what do we do?”

John grins. “Ever seen North by Northwest?”

Sherlock looks puzzled. “Uh, no.”

“Good.” John nods out the window. The light is brighter now. “I’m keeping us pretty low right now, to try and dodge their radar. Can you see anything down there?”

Sherlock presses his head to the glass and looks down. “Barely. It’s faint, but yes. I can see patterns.” He pauses. “It doesn’t look like there’s much down there, John. It’s...flat. And empty.”

“OK, good.” John looks down at the gauges again, moving his lips and fingers as he counts. “If my calculations are right, we’re somewhere over Arizona. That’s good. Lots of flat, empty highways in Arizona. We’ll just find one to visit.” He grins, but from the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock squirm in his seat. “Hey,” he says as quietly as he can and still be heard. “You OK?”

Sherlock’s knuckles are white around the armrests, and he won’t meet John’s gaze, but he manages a nod.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, but finally looks up to meet John’s eyes. John is struck again by the brightness of his eyes, the strange color that has changed somehow in the faint glow of all the gauges. He’s frightened, John can see, fighting to hold on to reason and calm in the face of true terror. It’s justified, John has to admit, but still--he impulsively reaches out to place his hand on top of Sherlock’s where it clutches at the armrest.

“We’re going to be all right, you know,” he says, with a gentle squeeze.

Sherlock looks down at John’s hand and then back up to his eyes. “You can’t say that. You don’t actually  _ know _ that.”

“I do, actually.” John gives another squeeze and then slowly brings his hand back to the yoke. “It was in my horoscope for today.”

Sherlock stares at him, and then shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips. “No, it wasn’t.”

“It was!” John insists. “I’ll swear to it. I read it over my coffee yesterday. Aries: You will meet a tall, dark stranger with mysterious baggage. Your relationship will take flight quickly, but all will be well in the end. See?”

Sherlock smirks. “You’re an Aries?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Capricorn.”

“I’m somehow surprised you know that.”

“Don’t overthink it. There’s an admin at the lab, and all he ever talks about is astrology. He’s forever trying to tell us the best days for meetings, or whom we should date.” Sherlock shrugs. “You hear it enough, it starts to sink in.”

“I see. So. Aries and Capricorn, huh.” John grins and looks out his side window. “We’d be very good, you know,” he says casually, and it works. Sherlock bursts into laughter, and from the corner of his eye, John can see his shoulders relax--not completely, but enough. Good, John thinks, because things are about to get tricky.

“There,” Sherlock says suddenly, pointing out the window. “About--oh, two o’clock. There’s a highway.”

“What’s around it?” John says, starting to ease the controls in that direction.

“Nothing,” Sherlock reports. “Sand. Cacti. A couple of trees. I don’t see any traffic at all.”

John takes a deep breath, holds it, and then lets it out with a huff. “That’s our target,” he says with a nod.

The two fall silent for several long minutes. John can see the highway now, and it’s about as good as it’s going to get. This is it, then. “We’re going in,” he says quietly, and from the corner of his eye, he registers Sherlock’s jerky nod. Unbidden, John’s mind starts to replay every piece of advice about flying he’s ever heard.

_ Flying consists of hours of excruciating boredom punctuated by minutes of sheer terror. _

He’d heard that about anesthesia duty during that rotation in medical school, too, he remembers, and it was true in both cases. He checks his approach, making sure the nose of the plane is lined up with the center of the highway. The road is just wide enough, he thinks. He can’t see any traffic in either direction; he’s going to have to hope their luck holds and be ready to pull off with little notice, just in case. He eases the throttle back, and feels the plane start to slow. A nice easy glide, that’s the trick. He hears Sherlock catch his breath, but doesn’t dare to look over. 

_ If it’s red or dusty, don’t touch it. _

He reaches over and flips the switch that lowers the landing gear. No dust on that switch, he thinks. To his immense relief, he hears the hum of gears, and after a few seconds, the green indicator light clicks on, confirming the tires are lowered and locked. That’s wonderful, he thinks, almost giddy for a second. Sherlock has started breathing again, rapid, shuddery breaths in and quickly out. Don’t hyperventilate, he thinks, but does not say. Maybe if he passes out, it will be easier on them both.

_ Don’t be found in the wreckage with your hand around the microphone. _

There’s no dust on the radio, either, and John spares a second to send another flare of hatred for Sebastian Moran out into the universe. The plane is descending steadily, nose pointing down just enough. John checks the airspeed; it’s fine, he thinks, and decides not to worry about engaging the flaps. It occurs to him to wonder about wind direction, but it’s too late to worry about it now. 

_ Fly it until the last piece stops moving. _

They’re close now, very close, and John pulls on the stick just enough to allow the plane to level off. They might be going a bit faster than he had aimed for, but it’s going to have to do. He can almost hear the concrete rushing beneath their wheels. They ease down and bounce once, hard, and then again. He’s not sure if the sound from the seat next to him is a curse or a sob. He grits his teeth and pushes the yoke forward, ever so carefully, and the plane touches down one more time, and this time, it stays there. 

For a moment, it’s almost peaceful.

But just as they begin to slow, John feels the plane starts to wobble. It’s subtle at first, but then there’s a lurch as the landing gear on the pilot’s side of the plane gives way. “Fuck!” he yells as the plane twists sideways and continues to slide. They’re powerless now, he thinks frantically. The rudder and brakes are useless. 

“Sherlock, take cover!” he cries, and hesitates for only the split second it takes to see Sherlock duck and throw his arms up before he takes his own advice.

\---

“They say a good landing is one you walk away from,” John muses. “A great landing is one where you can use the plane again.”

Sherlock steps up besides him. “It was a good landing, then.” 

Many yards away, the plane sits twisted and listing dangerously to one side. Smoke lingers in the air, painting the colors of the early desert sunrise with a tinge of twilight grey. Debris is scattered about, the rubber of shredded tires and the remains of plants unlucky enough to have once taken root by the side of the road. The stairs from the cabin are extended but dangle unevenly above the road, and from this side of the freeway, it all looks abandoned, almost ghostly. They could have died, John thinks suddenly, and shivers. 

Sherlock must feel it, because without saying a word, he slides a half step closer. John briefly closes his eyes and enjoys the warmth of another living body, the comfort of a companion. All right, he thinks. They made it. They could have died, but they didn’t, and it’s the final score that counts. He takes a single deep, cleansing breath. They made it, he thinks again, and now it’s time to get back to work.

John opens his eyes. “How is he?” he asks.

“He’s fine. Just starting to wake up.” They turn together and start to walk back to where the co-pilot rests in sparse shade, propped against an acacia tree. “His heart rate is almost normal, and he’s beginning to mumble a bit.”

John nods. “That’s good.” They stop a few yards away and regard him. “He’s heavier than he looks.”

Sherlock snorts. “He’s going to have one hell of a headache when he wakes up.”

John rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Good point. Let’s leave him some water.”

“Already did. Right there next to the flare gun. I put the rest of it into our bags.”

“I see.” John studies the co-pilot a minute longer. “I guess we should get going,” he says at last. “They’ll notice we’re off the radar any time now.”

“Okay.” Sherlock looks back toward the crash site. “Do you--you’re sure we should just leave Moran’s body in the plane?”

John shrugs. “They’ll find him,” he says simply. “They’ll figure out what happened, or they won’t. I’m not going to waste another minute on that bastard. The clock’s ticking, and it’s my job to get you to Atlanta.” 

“And will we be walking the entire way?” Sherlock looks ruefully down at his feet. “I hardly brought the right shoes for it.”

“Hopefully not, but I want to get going. We’ll figure out how to call in the cavalry along the way.” He walks over to his duffel and pulls out his gun, expertly ejects the magazine, and checks the trigger and the chamber. Satisfied, he reassembles the gun and slips it into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. He picks up his bag, adjusts the strap across his chest, and nods towards Sherlock’s backpack. “Grab your gear, Professor. It’s time for you to meet a little piece of America up close and personal.”

Sherlock scoops up the bag and throws it over his shoulder. “Can’t wait,” he says with a faint smile. “Which way?”

John points toward the rising sun, now completely visible above the horizon. “Atlanta is due east,” he says. “Let’s get some distance between us and all of this.” 

\---

It’s a quiet few minutes, and then John hears Sherlock catch his breath behind him. “Oh, stupid, stupid,” Sherlock says, as if to himself, and John makes an inquiring sound.

“My phone, John,” Sherlock says. “I’ve got my bloody phone.” John stops short and whips around, and Sherlock blinks in surprise.

“Don’t use your phone, for god’s sake,” he grits out. “They’ll track us. Jesus, is it turned on? We need to get rid of it. Right away.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “John, really. That wasn’t what I meant. You looked at my phone, remember? It’s dripping with security. No one can trace it.”

John lifts an eyebrow.

“All right, that’s not true,” Sherlock amends. “One person can trace it, but I trust him implicitly.”

“Lestrade?” John guesses, and doesn’t allow himself to wonder why he feels a tiny little kick in the gut at the sound of his name.

Sherlock looks confused. “Lestrade? No. It’s not Lestrade.” He reaches into his backpack and pulls out the phone. “It’s my brother.”

“Your brother,” John repeats. “The pompous arsehole?”

“Ah! You remembered. He’ll be ever so flattered,” Sherlock smirks. He unlocks the phone, but John stretches out a hand to stop him. Sherlock frowns at him and opens his mouth to speak, but John shakes his head.

“Are you really sure we can trust him?” he asks quietly.

Sherlock stares at him. “Yes, we can,” he finally says, and his eyes look a little--sad. “Would you like to know why I know that?”

John looks back at him and nods.

“It’s quite simple. If you understand a person’s motives, you can predict his behavior. My brother cares more for his country than he does his little brother.” There’s a hint of defiance in his voice, John thinks, and maybe some pain, but mostly, Sherlock sounds resigned. “He’ll always choose the mission over me, but this time I  _ am _ the mission.” He smiles tightly. “For once, I’ve actually made the list.”

John frowns. “Can he help us?”

“Without a doubt,” Sherlock answers.

John thinks for a moment. “All right,” he says at last. “If he has access to my file, he knows my history. Tell him to send someone I can trust.”

Sherlock agrees and begins to compose a text. It’s the work of a minute, and he hands the phone over to John when he’s done. “We’ll keep walking,” he says, as John scans the screen. “They’ll find us. I just need a minute, and we can get back on the trail.”

John crouches and rustles through his bag, pulling out two bottles of water. He turns back just in time to see Sherlock pull his jumper off over his head. John’s breath catches as he watches him stretch, and his heart begins to race. It’s just adrenaline from the events of the morning, he tells himself. It lasts longer in the body than people realize. Heightened emotions are all part of it. Another hour or two, and he’ll be back to normal.

Sherlock sees him watching, and grins, looking sheepish. “Bit sore from the crash,” he mumbles, and John nods knowingly. He looks away, but the image of Sherlock’s pale skin against the golden sand, the light of the morning sun playing in his curls, the allure of that gentle smile, are all burned into his memory.

Oh, hell, he thinks.


	8. 7:00AM to 8:00AM

Oh,  _ hell, _ Sherlock thinks. His shoes are going to be  _ ruined. _ He shakes some sand out from one of them, slips it back on, and runs to catch up with John. 

“You know what’s wrong with this country?” Sherlock asks, a bit breathless. 

“I have some ideas, yeah,” John replies, not breaking stride. 

“No trains,” Sherlock says. “They need more trains. We could be on a train right now instead of trudging through--” He indicates the bleak landscape. 

“And you think a train would be safer? Have you ever seen a James Bond movie? People get their arses  _ kicked _ on trains.” Sherlock starts to fire back a retort--of course he doesn’t take time for the theatre, James Bond is for idiots, he’s too busy with his research, what he does saves lives, doesn’t it--but then John looks back, and Sherlock catches a glimpse of a smile. He’s teasing me, Sherlock thinks with surprise. He savors the idea. It’s kind of--pleasant. He wonders what will happen if he plays along.

He sighs, an exaggerated, put-on thing, and is rewarded when the smile grows a bit wider. “Fine, I suppose. It’s just, trains have wireless, you know. And club cars. And, you know, seats. I’m not above a hike, but I guess I’m just saying my tastes run to the more civilized.”

“Ah,” John says, as he jumps over a rock. “You’re a spoiled prat, is what you’re saying.”

Sherlock sniffs. “Not at all. I’m just prefer my settings more...elegantly appointed.”

“Can’t blame you there,” John says brightly. “Watch out for that scorpion.”

“Bloody…” Sherlock leaps to the side and looks around at the ground wildly. 

John snorts. “Good reflexes.”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock says, but he grins as he says it.

They walk along for a few minutes. It’s still early, but the sun is fully up now, and the sky is clear. It’s going to start getting hot soon. Sherlock and John had raided the plane’s supply of bottled water, and their bags are heavy with it, but it’s not going to be enough for more than a few hours in this kind of heat. Come on, Mycroft, he thinks, hoping that he was right, that this time what Sherlock has to offer is so important that his brother will send help.

John must be thinking along similar lines. “If we’re out here much longer, you’re going to get sunburnt,” he says.

Sherlock shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

John snorts. “You’re a scientist. Have you heard of this new invention called sunscreen? It’s all the rage with the crazy kids who don’t want skin cancer.”

Sunscreen, Sherlock thinks. He knows something about sunscreen. After a moment’s concentration yields nothing, he closes his eyes and goes to the library of his memory palace. It’s a simple process; he used to have to visualize himself unlocking the gates and walking through the front door, but after years of practice, he can now imagine himself right where he wants to be with no delay. His library is a huge single room, full to the rafters and constantly under construction, but his filing system, while quite personal, is very efficient. In the southwest corner, three shelves up from the bottom, he finds a book of traditional remedies from different cultures. It’s very old, each page printed on different types of fabric, parchment, and stretched animal skin. He turns the pages until he finds what he’s looking for.

Sherlock opens his eyes to find John standing before him, looking vaguely concerned. 

“Western wallflower,” Sherlock says, turning to scan the landscape around them. “Sunflowers would work too, but this isn’t the right climate for them.” 

John blinks. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Sunscreen, John.” He takes a few steps and frowns down at a decidedly unflowery-looking clump of plant material. “Native Americans mixed the oils from certain flowers with water to make natural sunscreen. Look around. It’s a small flower in a cluster, four petals, yellow or orange.” 

John nods. “I thought they used aloe for sun,” he says, toeing at another clump of leaves nearby.

Sherlock covers his eyes and squints as he tries to see further into the distance. “No, aloe’s for after you get the burn,” he says absently. “Damn. I don’t see any of those flowers anywhere.” He sighs. “Probably would have taken forever to extract the oils, anyway.”

“So...do you always make your own sunscreen?” John asks, as he picks up his bag and motions toward the narrow path they’ve been following.

Sherlock doesn’t answer for a couple of minutes. Finally, he says, “I don’t get outside much.”

John laughs. “I might have guessed.”

Sherlock responds with an arched eyebrow.

“Well, your skin is--”

Ah. “Pale? Ghostly?” Sherlock says shortly.

John shakes his head. “Like porcelain,” he says quietly.

“Oh.” Sherlock frowns briefly, and then frowns again as he feels a blush starting in his cheeks. John doesn’t mean anything by it, he tells himself. He probably means he looks fragile, or something.

Except...that’s not how it sounded. It sounded  _ admiring. _

They walk on in silence for another couple of minutes.

“How’d you know that about the flowers?” John finally asks. “I mean, I know you’re a genius and all, but I’d hardly expect a biochemist from England to know about the UV ray-blocking properties of American flowers.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I must have read it somewhere.”

John looks thoughtful. “You said that about surviving crashes in the cockpit, too. Eidetic memory, then? Do you remember everything you read?”

“Not everything, just the things I think might be useful someday.” Sherlock bites his lip. He’s never managed to explain this well, but for some reason, he wants John to understand. “Have you ever heard of the method of loci?”

To Sherlock’s surprise, John brightens. “Oh! Yeah. We had a patient who used it come through on my orthopedics rotation. She ended up telling me about it while we were waiting for X-rays. It was fascinating. Really fantastic.”

“Then you understand the theory.”

“Mmm, in general.”

Despite himself, Sherlock can’t help but be curious. “Did she tell you what her structure was?” 

“Yeah. She was a veterinary surgeon,” John says with a faint smile. “She’d always loved animals, so she used a zoo. She told me that when she didn’t have time to process things fully, she’d leave mental sticky notes on an animal’s cage door.”

“Clever,” Sherlock says with approval. Somehow, he’d never considered using animals. There’s a lot of potential there, he thinks. Maybe he could add stables behind the palace.

“She was incredibly bright,” John says as they walk along. “Easily distracted, though. She’d broken her leg while walking her dog. She was thinking about a patient and the dog led her right into a creek. Slipped on a wet rock and wiped out.”

Sherlock grins. “Must have been a big dog.”

John shakes his head. “No, one of those little fluffy dogs, as I remember. She was pretty embarrassed.” He stops and takes a long pull from a bottle of water before offering it to Sherlock. “So what’s your structure?”

Sherlock takes a long drink and then caps the bottle slowly, preparing for the ribbing. “It’s a palace.”

“Oh.” John merely nods. “Like Hannibal.”

Sherlock throws up his hands in exasperation. “That’s what Lestrade said! People say that all the time, and I have no idea what it means.”

John is chuckling. “He’s a character in a TV show. If you’ve been anywhere near a computer in the past three years, you’ve at least seen it mentioned. You should check the viewing room in your palace.” He pauses. “Or the kitchen, maybe.”

“I don’t have any space for popular culture,” Sherlock grumbles. “The main structure is almost completely filled with work, and the side buildings are--”

John suddenly stops short. Sherlock nearly collides with him, but manages to step aside at the last second. He looks around carefully--he’s not entirely sure John was kidding about the scorpion--but sees nothing. He looks at John, curious. John is staring back at him. 

“Sherlock,” John says, sounding almost suspicious. “You said work. Your castle is filled with  _ your work." _

“It’s not a castle, it’s a  _ palace," _ Sherlock answers, a bit defensively.

John waves the comment away. “I need to ask you something and it’s very important.” He narrows his eyes. “Where’s the formula for the antidote?”

Sherlock blinks. “In the solarium,” he answers slowly. 

“The solarium. Of your mind palace.”

Sherlock hesitates, but there’s nothing for it. “Yes.”

John closes his eyes and draws a breath in through his nose. He looks--not angry, exactly, Sherlock thinks, but weary. He looks burdened. Sherlock is baffled. Why does this matter?

“Why does it matter?” asks Sherlock. “Was it not clear that it wasn’t on my person when I cataloged the contents of my backpack? I said I had  _ mints, _ John, not a critically important set of lab data.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “I suppose I thought the data was in a database somewhere, and not in your recently plane-crashed  _ head." _

“The data  _ were, _ John. The word is plural.”

“Shut up.” He holds up one hand in a ‘stop’ motion. “So what happens if you get hurt or killed? Not that I anticipate either of those. In fact, I’m working very hard to prevent either of them, but...still.”

Sherlock considers the question carefully. He knows Mycroft would be furious at any violation of protocol, but--Mycroft  _ had _ vetted John, after all. When the plane was crashing, John had seen to it that Sherlock was protected before he’d taken his own cover. He’d slapped Moran’s hand when Moran had tried to touch him. He’d said (in front of a witness, even) that he was willing to put his life on the line to keep Sherlock safe. He can trust John, he thinks. He needs to trust him.

Sherlock makes the decision. “There’s a copy,” he says. “One. In a safe place.” He draws in a deep breath. “And now that it’s just you and me out here, I should tell you.”

“Tell me what?” John says.

“Give me your phone,” Sherlock says, and after a moment’s hesitation, John pulls it out and hands it over. “If I get killed, or go missing, you have to text a very particular phrase to this number.” He taps in a number on the emergency call screen and holds it up where John can see it. “Save it. And remember the code: Vatican Cameos. Vatican Cameos, John, can you remember that? You can’t write it down.”

“I’ll remember,” John says, his voice certain. “But tell me, if I have to send it, what happens then?”

“Then…” Sherlock laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “A ton of shit rains down on everyone’s head.”

“Fair enough.” John takes his phone back and carefully puts it back in his pocket. “Makes more sense to keep you safe, then. I’ve been thinking about this. Do you know how to shoot?”

Sherlock blinks. “What?”

“How to shoot. A gun. To take aim and fire in the cause of self defense. Nothing in the palace?” Sherlock only blinks. “I’ll take that as a no, then.” John looks around the area with a scowl; his face clears when he sees what he's been looking for. “Come on.”

John takes him by the elbow and leads him over to a clear patch of sand. He drops his bag, slides Sherlock’s backpack off his shoulder, and turns him until they are facing the same direction. He reaches behind himself to pull the gun from his waistband and makes a show of checking the safety. Then: “Here.” He grips the gun around the barrel and holds it out to Sherlock, grip first. “Try it.”

Sherlock looks from the gun to John’s face with wide eyes, but John just smiles. “Go on,” he says, giving the gun a little nudge in Sherlock’s direction. “Safety’s on.”

Sherlock swallows once, hard, and slowly reaches for the gun. It's surprisingly warm in his hand. He tightens his grip and pulls it toward him. The handle is smooth and worn. It's obviously sized for a smaller hand, but his long fingers wrap around it comfortably. It’s heavier and more evenly balanced than he would have expected.

It feels rather--good.

“Well, look at that. It suits you.” John stands back and looks him over. “Right handed, I see. How's your eyesight?”

“Perfect,” Sherlock says absently, as he stares down at the gun in his hand.

John rolls his eyes. “Of course. Now, listen.” He takes a step closer, and his voice takes on a crisp, authoritative edge that has Sherlock focusing on every word. “We don’t have time to get fancy. You’re not going to become a sharpshooter in ten minutes, so get your expectations under control. I just want someone to take you seriously if you pull a gun on them, and that means you have to broadcast confidence. You have to  _ know  _ you can shoot if you have to. Do you understand?”

It takes Sherlock a few seconds to realize that John is waiting for an answer. He’s mesmerizing like this, Sherlock thinks, even more so than when he was staring down Moran or wrestling the plane. Up close, Sherlock can see that John’s eyes are a deep blue, almost navy, and piercing when he’s on task, like now. It’s almost intoxicating to be at the center of so much fierce attention.

“Sherlock? You with me?” John puts a gentle hand on his arm, and Sherlock feels his warmth of John’s touch seeping through his sleeve. He realizes in a flash that the gun had felt warm because it had been nestled against John’s back, and, well. He looks down at the gun again. That’s just--something.

“Sherlock?” John asks again, with just a touch of worry this time.

Sherlock starts. “Sorry. Yes, I’m ready. What do I do?”

“First, do you see that cactus?” John points to a human-sized cactus about seven or eight yards away. 

“Yes.”

“All right. Aim for it.” Sherlock holds his arm out straight ahead of him, gun in hand, and John slips around behind him and reaches around him to steady his aim. 

Oh, god. John presses up close against his back, and that feels...wow. Sherlock draws in a tight breath, and it turns out that was a mistake, because John is right  _ there, _ and Christ, does he smell good. Sherlock can’t help it; he breathes in again. There’s gun oil, of course, and a hint of petrol from the plane, but there’s also the scent of John, sun-warm and peppery, a tang of sweat with a suggestion of something--fresh? Yes, lemon. His shampoo, maybe. He’s so distracted by the smell that he jumps when John’s breath tickles his ear.

“Okay,” John says from behind him. Sherlock can feel John’s jaw moving against his shoulder as he speaks. He’s so close. Sherlock’s hand quivers (his whole body shivers, really), and John tightens the grip on Sherlock’s wrist, steadying him even more. “I would suggest focusing on trigger pull first. Most people jerk to the side when they start, and that’s all about how you pull the trigger.”

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry. The phrases "jerk to the side" and “how you pull the trigger” echo in his brain, and he briefly curses the education that taught him to find subtext in everything.

“It’s like everything else,” John continues, low and soothing. “It’s just a matter of practice. Relax, now. Take a couple of deep breaths. Let that tension go.”

John releases Sherlock’s arm and briefly squeezes both of his shoulders, and Sherlock is fairly certain he’s going to die. His face is hot and his knees are weak and this just can’t be good.

“Right. Let’s give it a go,” John says. He reaches around again, and resumes his grip on Sherlock’s arm. He’s pressed up against Sherlock’s back again, and it feels almost like an embrace, like John might press his lips to the back of his neck at any moment and for god’s sake, he needs to focus, he is  _ holding a bloody gun. _ “Flip off the safety--there--good. Ready?”

Sherlock nods and secretly sends up a prayer that he doesn’t embarrass himself. There are currently several ways that could happen, and not all of them have to do with the gun.

“Fine, then. When you’re ready.  Just aim...breathe out...and...squeeze.”

There’s a loud bang, and one arm of the cactus explodes.

John leans back and for a moment, Sherlock’s body unconsciously shifts to chase the lost contact. John doesn’t seem to notice; he steps up next to Sherlock, and he’s  _ beaming. _ “Safety on,” he says. “Look at that. You’re a bloody natural.”

Sherlock frowns. “But I was aiming for the center,” he says.

John laughs. “Are you kidding? I’ve taught shooting for years, and no one has ever hit the target on their first try. No one, Sherlock.” John walks over, picks up the broken piece of cactus, and holds it up. “This is brilliant. Well done. If this cactus had been a man, he’d be on the ground right now.”

Sherlock's insides tickle from the praise.

Shooting is  _ loud, _ Sherlock thinks. He can already feel a bruise forming at the base of his thumb. There’s some weird black  _ something _ under his fingernails, and his clothes smell faintly of oil.

But he thinks back on how John stood behind him, keeping him steady. The warmth of their bodies mingling, and John’s gentle encouragement in his ear. John, keeping him calm, planning ahead. John, wanting him safe.

Slipping into his memory palace, Sherlock gathers up all the details of the past few minutes and wraps them carefully in a piece of deep blue silk. There’s a beautiful handmade wooden box with a richly detailed carving of John’s pistol on the lid, and Sherlock smiles to see it. He slips the parcel inside and carries the box to his private study, a small, cleanly decorated room fairly dripping in light. He places it there, on the corner of his desk, just where the sun can reach it.

He looks at it for a long moment, smiling faintly, and then opens his eyes back in the real world. He shakes out his shoulders, rolls his head, and flexes his grip on the handle a couple of times. 

Then Sherlock nods toward another cactus. “Again,” he says, lifting the gun, and John smiles. 


	9. 8:00AM to 9:00AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* This chapter was completely unbetaed, so please let me know if you see anything that needs correcting. More to the point, don't blame Jen or Kedgeree for anything bad.

John lifts up onto his toes and shields his eyes from the sun with one hand as he surveys the damage. “Well, Dr. Holmes, I believe you have single-handedly stopped the succulent apocalypse.” He bends down and picks up a single round cactus leaf. “You deserve a trophy. Here, mount this over your fireplace at home.”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. “I believe there are import laws that would prevent that, Agent.”

“What a shame.” John drops the leaf and walks over to stand beside him. Sherlock hands him the gun, and he automatically pops the magazine and checks the chamber. The action is smooth as ever, though he’ll want to clean and oil it soon. He notes Sherlock watching him closely. “How are you feeling now?”

“Better,” Sherlock admitted. “I’m a bit concerned that humans might be a bit more belligerent than the average cactus, but it’s a start, I suppose.”

John hums. “Well, it’s like I said. I just wanted you confident enough to bluff.” He scratches his head and grins. “I didn’t figure on you being a bloody prodigy.”

“Oh.” Sherlock looks down at the ground, but John sees the blush on his cheeks. Sherlock doesn’t seem to know what to do with compliments, John notices. It’s kind of sweet.

Sweet. He’s thinking that Sherlock is  _ sweet. _ Damn it. That’s really enough of this now.

“Grab some water, and let’s head out,” John says, as he slides the gun into the back of his jeans. He sees Sherlock watching that movement too, and it’s his turn to blush.  _ Damn it. _

They pack up their gear. Sherlock throws his backpack over his shoulder and motions for John to go before him on the trail.

They walk in a comfortable silence for several minutes. Sherlock surprises him at every turn, John thinks. His stunning appearance, his sly humor, his willingness to admit what he doesn’t know--none of these fit with John’s idea of a genius, let alone one with the literal capacity to save the world. Which, by the way, isn’t going to happen in the middle of the sodding desert. Now, where the hell is--

Sherlock’s rumble of a voice breaks into his thoughts. “He’ll be along soon,” Sherlock says.

John slows down and lets Sherlock catch up to him. “What?”

“You were thinking about my brother, god help you. Wondering where he is. Weren’t you?”

“Well, yes, but how did you…”

“He’s looking for someone you can trust, like you asked,” Sherlock interrupts. “He approved your assignment to me, and he doesn’t do anything halfway, so I'm certain he’s familiar with your qualifications. He has the luxury of knowing your competence will keep us safe, and above all he likes to be--” Sherlock appears to be searching for a word.  _ "Thorough. _ Whomever he sends will be along soon enough.”

John considers that for a minute. “I’m just a guy with a gun, Sherlock,” he says finally, “and we’re wasting a lot of time right now.”

“Maybe.” Sherlock nods. “But I am still alive, which was not something I would have bet on just two hours ago. This is a good day, John.”

“You were in a plane crash, you idiot,” John mutters, but he’s smiling now.

Sherlock shrugs. “I’ve learned to shoot, and I’m getting a tan. This is practically a vacation.”

“Why, Dr. Holmes. That is a shockingly positive attitude. One is forced to wonder if you are actually British.”

“Hmm. Let’s be sure. Ask me something only a British person would know.”

John taps his chin thoughtfully. “All right. What is the best--”

“Tea,” Sherlock interrupts.

“But you don’t know what I was going to ask.”

“Doesn’t matter. The correct answer is tea. Isn't it?”

John grins. “Well, yeah.”

“There you go. Good as a passport.”

They walk along next to each other for another few minutes. Sherlock seems lost in thought. John, for his part, finds himself remembering the last time he was in England. He misses it, he’s surprised to realize, misses London and chippies and red double-decker buses, and, yes, decent cups of tea. He misses curry in Brick Lane and Regent’s Park in spring. He misses pubs, real ones. It might be time for a trip back, he muses, assuming the world doesn’t end in the next week or two. 

Sherlock clears his throat, interrupting his reverie. “Thank you for letting me use your gun.”

John places one hand on his chest and executes a little bow as he walks. “My pleasure.”

“You’re an excellent teacher.”

“Well, thank you.” John smiles over at him. “You’re a fine student.”

Sherlock ignores the compliment. "You said I was right handed."

"True. Because you are."

“You’re left handed,” Sherlock says. 

John lifts an eyebrow. “Yes. And…”

“You shoot with your right. Why?”

John feels his stomach drop, and he struggles to keep the sudden discomfort from showing in his expression. Bloody hell. He isn’t sure how to answer, but a partial truth seems a good place to start.

“It’s not uncommon, you know. Most equipment is designed for right-handers. And a lot of instructors are right handed, and sometimes it’s just easier to do exactly what they do, rather than trying to flip everything around.”

“Was your teacher right handed?”

_ Son of a bitch.  _ John smiles tightly, looking straight ahead. “I don’t remember.”

Sherlock frowns. “I’m upsetting you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” John says, and picks his pace up just enough to move ahead again, far enough this time that Sherlock can’t see his face.

\---

_ It had been a dark alley, a literal dark alley, and John would have laughed if he hadn’t felt so sick. Months of suspicion and weeks of investigation had led him to this place, and soon, he’d have the answer. Soon he’d know which of his colleagues (which of his friends) had turned traitor. _

_ It had started with a case. John had assembled a team of investigators, the best people he could find, though it had seemed like overkill at the time. He’d only recently been recruited to the Special Investigations Branch from the medical corps, but he’d already gotten a reputation for being thorough and tenacious (a ‘meticulous pain in the arse,’ as a co-worker had described him). He’d been savvy enough to know that the case was a test. There had been someone in a field unit smuggling medications to the other side, and he’d been asked to find and stop them. He’d been determined that he would not fail. _

_ And he hadn’t. He’d uncovered the culprit, seen him tried and the smuggling ring blown apart, but...something hadn’t been right. The numbers hadn’t quite added up, though the investigation had been deemed a success. John had been congratulated. He’d started getting asked to attend meetings, tapped to chair task forces, and handed higher profile cases. Secretly, he’d begin to think that he’d finally found his place in the army, and he’d felt nothing but relief and gratitude. His girlfriend, Mary, was also a member of the Branch, and she’d teased him mercilessly, saluting him as they passed in the bathroom and asking in the most serious manner if he’d help assemble a team for a weekend attack on their local pub. They’d been happy, he had thought. He had been happy. _

_ Then another case had come along, similar in its bones to that very first one, but far more complicated in its way. John had spent hours, days in fact, analyzing the data, following the money, and one afternoon, he’d finally seen it. There’d been a leak, and it had been coming from the Branch. _

_ It had been coming from his team. _

_ He had told no one, of course. He’d come close a couple of times to telling Mary, but he reasoned it was a sorry boyfriend that would tell his girlfriend not to trust her friends, even if his motives were pure. John would figure it out. He would find the person and he would stop them, and then the team members would each heal from the wound in their own ways, and it would all be fine in the long run. _

_ Then he’d intercepted a message, and requisitioned a car, and ended up in this ridiculously cliched dark alley. There had been a door leading to an office, and the person who’d betrayed them would be there, unaware that their time was up. _

_ He’d knocked on the door. _

_ And then he had laughed, because it’d had been Mary, of course it had been Mary, of course it had been bloody fucking Mary, standing alongside that cocky son of a bitch from the office next door, Moran. _

_ He’d laughed, and Moran had laughed with him, but Mary had stared coldly between them.  _

_ “How could you?” John had asked Mary, when he’d finally caught his breath. _

_ “Oh, don’t be so naive,” she’d sneered. “Both teams are the same, love. Picking a side is just real estate.” _

_ “They’re not the same, though,” he’d said, with conviction. “They're not. The difference is that one is ours to protect.” _

_ “Self-protection is all I’m interested in now,” she’d said coolly. “Let me leave, John. Let us both go, and you’ll never have to see us again.” _

_ “Oh, Mary," he’d said sadly, slowly pulling out his gun. “You know I can’t do that. Both of you, now. Up against the wall.” _

_ Mary had flicked her eyes at Moran, and it had all happened at once. _

_ Mary had pulled out her own gun and taken aim directly at John’s heart.  _

_ John had aimed back, though not to kill, and moved to block the door.  _

_ Moran had broken and run right for him, knocking him roughly aside as he’d thrown himself out the door and raced down the alley. _

_ John had spun and struggled to keep his balance. He’d lowered his gun, because of course he wouldn’t shoot Mary, of course he wouldn’t. _

_ Mary had fired. Mary had  _ fired. __

_ He’d felt the bullet enter his left shoulder. The pain had driven him first to his knees, and then to the ground, where he’d lain still and watched his own blood spread out across the floor.  _

_ He’d heard the click of sensible heels on the concrete floor, felt the shift in the air as they stopped behind him.  _

_ “Oh, John,” Mary had said then, mock sorrow in her voice. “It’s such a shame you’re left-handed.” She’d cocked the pistol then, and he’d been sure she was aiming for his head. _

_ And he’d felt  _ rage _ surge through him, adrenaline and endorphins making the pain fall away. _

_ And it had been easy then, to suddenly roll himself over, to take aim, and to fire, with absolute pinpoint accuracy. _

_ With his right hand. _

\---

John feels a gentle tapping on his right arm. “John,” Sherlock is saying, as he offers John a bottle of water with his other hand. “Are you all right? Where were you?”

John smiles ruefully. “A million miles away, I guess.” He takes the water. “Thanks.”

“Here. Sit.” Sherlock steers him to a flat rock, all the while watching him closely. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, I guess. Just memories.” He slides back onto the rock and looks down at the ground, at his boots covered with sand, and takes a deep breath. “I’m usually pretty good at locking them down where they can’t bother me, but sometimes I just--” John shrugs. “Sorry.”

“Ah.” Sherlock nods, looking away. “I just organize mine.”

“In your mind palace.”

“Yes.”

John takes a drink of water and considers. “Even the bad memories?”

Sherlock smirks. “Well, if I’m being honest, I’ll admit some of the doors have locks.”

“You know,” John says, “I really should try that.”

“Well, the system has its uses, but just between you and me, I’ve come to believe the whole idea is overrated. Bloody hard to sell a used palace, though.”

John bursts into laughter, and Sherlock grins, looking pleased, as he holds out his hand. “Shall we?”

John reaches out to take it, but as their fingers close together, he’s caught off guard by a wave of fierce desire. He hasn’t felt anything like this since that day in the alley, since Mary fell, but god, is he feeling it now. Sherlock’s skin is smooth and warm, and his hands are large, strong but delicate in their way. They’re beautiful, John thinks, as he lifts his eyes to Sherlock’s face.  _ He’s _ beautiful. 

Sherlock stares back at him with those solemn, verdigris eyes, and John  _ wants. _


	10. 9:00AM to 10:00AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deeply apologize for the fictional destruction of the cactuses in chapters 8 and 9. I understand that these are long-lived and highly valued in the desert ecosystem, and I am sorry if I seemed flippant or casual about damaging them. My only defense is that this fic is based on a highly ridiculous TV show that would have totally gone for this visual. Still, it was wrong of me to publish that without a warning. Please don't shoot cactuses.

Sherlock is a biochemist, and a damn good one at that. He’s an acknowledged expert on the effects of various stimuli on chemical and electrical receptors, and is very familiar with the split second cellular changes that can trigger sensation in the human body. Despite all of that, he has no idea what just happened.

John took his hand, and now Sherlock’s body is on fire. 

They’re walking again, and Sherlock has no idea when they started. He doesn’t remember John standing, or picking up his bag, because Sherlock is still back in that moment, savoring the warmth of John’s touch, his pleasantly dry skin, the deceptively strong grip. There’s electricity humming in his veins. He’s actually  _ tingling. _

It doesn’t make sense. It’s not like John hasn’t touched him before. They’d shaken hands when they met, like civilized men. John had squeezed his hand on the plane, offering a welcome moment of comfort, and then, of course, John had touched him when teaching him to shoot. Sherlock remembers John’s hand on his waist, his breath on his neck, his arm wrapped around him and that calm, authoritative voice in his ear--

Sherlock feels a tightening in his groin, and blinks in surprise. His nervous system is entirely out of control, he thinks, and he’s not sure what to do about it. It’s even reacting  _ retroactively. _

“I guess we’re lucky it’s not hotter already.”

Sherlock jumps at John’s voice  _ (out of control), _ but manages to nod and look up, as if evaluating the cloudless sky and not praying for strength.

John continues. “Reminds me a bit of Afghanistan.”

Talking might help, Sherlock muses. He needs a distraction desperately, and it’s the only real option at hand, so he decides to give it a try. He clears his throat. “I wasn’t sure if you’d served there or Iraq. Knew it was one or the other, though.” He’s pleased that his voice sounds steady. Whatever is happening to his body is apparently confined to the regions below his neck.

“You didn’t see my file?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. My brother likes to make me ask for things, and I didn’t have the time.”

John huffs a laugh. “You know, I can’t decide if I can’t wait to meet your brother, or if I want to avoid him at all costs.”

“Avoid, if you can.” Sherlock quirks a smile. “Trust me.”

“The wisdom of experience.” John smiles back. “I appreciate the advice.”

They walk along for a couple of minutes, and Sherlock is relieved to note that his--what to call it, arousal?--has eased. It’s not the first time the evocation of his brother has had that effect. In any case, he’s starting to feel more like himself.

“What was Afghanistan like?” Sherlock asks at last, and he’s truly curious. 

John hums. “Hot. Bright.” He bites his lip, looking thoughtful. “Very loud, far too much of the time.”

“Ah. Right. Well, it was war.”

John shrugs. “I wasn’t on the front lines for all of it. I did one rotation with the medical corps--” He pauses. “You know I was a doctor, right?”

Sherlock nods and motions for him to go on.

“Well, after that I was recruited for Special Investigations, and I started spending most of my time in Kabul, in the Green Zone. We still saw some action, but it was quieter.”

Sherlock steals a glance. “You didn’t like it,” he observes.

“The work? I loved it, actually. I felt like I was making a difference, and sometimes--”

“No, I mean the quiet,” Sherlock interrupts. “You prefer action.”

John opens his mouth, but then closes it. He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then finally, he nods. “I guess you’re right. A lot of the investigations were done out in the field, and that was my favorite part.” He frowns and flexes his left hand. “Usually.” 

Sherlock watches from the corner of his eye, and says nothing. There’s a story there, he thinks, but he’s not sure how to ask. At any rate, after a moment, John appears to shake it off.

“It’s not like you’re not one to talk,” John says, brightening. “You’ve certainly seen your share of excitement today, and you’re handling it better than fine.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, caught off guard by this assessment. He considers the idea. “I suppose that’s true,” he says slowly. “It’s not what I expected, though. I can’t say I’m getting used to it.

John snorts. “You never get used to it. You just get hooked on it.”

Sherlock hums. “If you say so. That’s hard to imagine.”

“I’d still say you’re a natural. So what happens after all of this? Back to the lab?”

Sherlock purses his lips. “I suppose. My sabbatical is basically over, anyway.”

“I’m sure your girlfriend will be glad to have you back.”

“What?” Sherlock blinks.

“Or boyfriend,” John adds, suddenly not meeting his eyes. “Whichever. It’s all good.” 

“Why not both?” John freezes, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m kidding, John.”

“Oh,” John says, and grins. “You got me.” They walk along, John shaking his head and chuckling. It’s nice, this...whatever it is. Companionship. Friendship, maybe. John seems to accept him, despite their very different lifestyles, and even seems interested in who he is, rather than what he knows. Despite the broad, open sky, the air around them feels close, intimate. It feels  _ good, _ and Sherlock wants that feeling to last.

“There isn’t anyone waiting for me,” Sherlock says quietly. “I’m just sort of--married to my work.” 

“Sounds lonely,” John says, and Sherlock is glad there is no pity in it. He opens his mouth to deny it.

“Maybe,” comes out instead, and Sherlock blinks with surprise.

\---

_ He'd tested as bright at four, gifted at ten, and brilliant at fourteen. At sixteen, he was invited to start studying at King’s College. He went, of course. His parents were ambivalent, worried about his social life, but there was so much out there to learn, and secondary school had proven insufferably dull. His brother, no stranger to ambition, stepped in and promised in his casually condescending way to keep Sherlock safe. _

_ The post-doc in his lab, Sebastian Wilkes, was tall, reasonably clever, and casually appreciative of Sherlock’s talent, at least at first. Later, he’d appreciated Sherlock’s body. Even later, he’d appreciated Sherlock’s naivete. _

_ The research he was assigned to work on was cutting edge for the time: the effects of cocaine on the immune system. Access to the drug had required all kinds of permissions, which the well-known but alcoholic primary researcher managed to bluff his way through. They focused at first on cellular immunity. “It’s all about the cells,” the primary researcher would drone, when he had dried out enough (temporarily) to be seen at the lab. Sebastian echoed him at every opportunity, and Sherlock nodded along obediently, despite his growing suspicion that the answer, in fact, rested elsewhere. _

_ No one wanted to work with ‘the kid’ at first, but Sherlock didn’t mind. In fact, he reveled in the freedom. He hadn’t had any friends before uni, and wasn’t old enough to drink his way to finding any now, so he spent nights and weekends at the lab, working up his own theories. The quiet was soothing, and it was nice to have access to all the equipment without a queue. They’d been ordered to keep the cocaine carefully locked up, but Sherlock found his way around that in less than five minutes. He never thought to try it, though. That would have been insane. _

_ One Friday night, so late it was morning, Sebastian came by to pick up a jacket while headed to a nearby club with his friends, and found Sherlock bent over a microscope. He was peeved at first, then amused, then intrigued, and finally quite complimentary. Sherlock preened. He’d been certain his research was solid, but it was nice to be recognized, at last. _

_ Two weeks later, late one night in the lab, to Sherlock’s great surprise, Sebastian made a move. They didn’t do much, some kissing, some touching, but it was more than Sherlock had ever done in his life. After, as Sherlock’s nerves buzzed and hormones surged, Sebastian said, “Tell me more about your research, clever boy.” _

_ He came around again a few days later, and then again a few days after that. _

_ Sherlock was as happy as he’d ever been. He had a relationship, and he had important work; his life had finally started. He ignored his mother’s calls and his brother’s texts, and skipped classes to get extra time at the lab. Often, he could only stare with longing across the benches. Sebastian, his mouth an exaggerated moue of regret, had told him their time together had to be kept secret. Workplace romances marked a man, he said. He was only thinking of Sherlock’s future.  _

_ Sherlock thanked him. He had actually thanked him.  _

_ It went on for a few glorious weeks, but as winter break drew close, Sebastian started to grow distant. He cut back on their evenings together, thinly pleading exhaustion or family as an excuse, and once or twice even stood Sherlock up. Finally, Sebastian cut him off entirely, refusing to see him, refusing to explain. Sherlock was heartbroken. He spent his break trying to figure out what he had done wrong. He’d done his best, he thought. Maybe he’d not been interesting enough. Maybe--maybe he wasn’t good enough in bed. _

_ He came back next term, grim faced, determined to bury himself in his work to hide his shame, only to find he’d been assigned to another lab. He asked for his notebooks, but no one could find them. Pity, the department admin said dismissively, and Sherlock despaired. _

_ Only three months later, there was an announcement in the departmental paper: a major journal had accepted Sebastian’s latest paper. _

_ It was Sherlock’s research, of course. Sherlock’s theories, his experiments, all of the hours he’d put in; all numbly laid out in passive voice and published under Sebastian’s name. The paper was well received. Sherlock got a single mention in the acknowledgments, in an almost unreadably tiny font, for ‘laboratory assistance.’  _

_ Sherlock retreated to his rooms and didn’t leave for days, not eating or talking to anyone. Only Mycroft showing up at his door got him out of bed. Mycroft took one look at him and sighed. “Oh, baby brother,” he said quietly. “I will destroy him.” Sherlock didn’t ask how Mycroft knew, because Mycroft always knew everything. Sherlock also didn’t ask for comfort. He knew better. _

_ Sebastian’s career stalled after that paper, for reasons no one could ever explain. He was unable to find a permanent position in a lab, or to get funding, or even a job teaching chemistry in secondary school. Eventually, he was forced to slink back to his parents’ home and join the family insurance business. He grew fat and bitter, and Sherlock forced himself not to care. _

_ Sherlock, for his part, had learned his lesson. He threw himself into his work, working almost impossible hours, and gained a reputation for brilliant creativity perfectly coupled with scientific rigor. His talks were highly regarded, and his papers withstood the most rigorous peer reviews. The word “genius” began to echo in the halls. As graduation drew near, he was offered a staggering number of university positions, doing any kind of research that interested him. It was widely assumed that the university he selected would be the world’s leader in biochemistry for the next generation. The competition to land him was fierce, but he gave no indication where he’d go. He spoke to almost no one, keeping himself to himself.  _

_ A week before commencement, his brother came to visit, and everyone knew a decision was imminent. University presidents stayed up to keep watch, and more than one sent flowers. It didn’t do any good, though: on the day before the graduation ceremony, Sherlock accepted a government position at Porton Down. _

_ The scientific community was stunned. A government position. What was he thinking? Confidentiality agreements, layers of bureaucracy--it would be a nightmare. It was a tragic waste, everyone agreed. He’d go mad. No good science could come out of the ramshackle huts of Porton Down. _

_ He started work one month after graduation. _

_ He had three publications accepted within four months. _

_ He published a paper that made the cover of “Science” a year after that. _

_ He was proud of his work and knew he was making a difference. He spent almost every waking hour at the lab, which was fine. There was no one waiting for him at home, after all. _

\---

“Sherlock.” John’s voice, strong and determined, cuts into Sherlock’s reverie. Sherlock stops and lifts his head; John is looking into the distance, his lips pressed together and his expression a deep scowl.

Sherlock follows his line of sight. There, on the horizon: a dust cloud. Someone is coming their way. He looks at John, eyebrows raised.

John narrows his eyes, lifting a hand to shield them from the sun. “Truck,” he says tersely, answering Sherlock’s unspoken question. “Too much dust for just a car. I figured your brother would send a helicopter.”

“I did, too. Can you see what type it is?”

John squints. “Looks like a Humvee.”

“Shit,” Sherlock breathes. “Friend or foe?”

John gives a single shake of his head without taking his eyes from the oncoming vehicle. “No way to tell.”

Sherlock looks around wildly. His heart is starting to race, but he wills himself not to panic.“There’s nowhere to hide, John. What do we do?”

John draws in a deep breath and straightens his spine. “We face them.” As Sherlock watches, John’s face settles into a look of confidence and resolve. He reaches behind him to pull out his gun and checks the magazine with swift, sure motions. He seems bigger somehow, certain, and almost lethal in his self assurance. 

The dust cloud is coming closer, and Sherlock can hear the grind of thick tires on the gravel road. John takes a step forward, placing himself between Sherlock and the road. “Let me do the talking,” John says quietly, his lips barely moving. “I won’t let them take you. Not alone.”

Sherlock swallows hard. “Remember the code, John,” he says quietly.

John nods once, and reaches back with his left hand to find Sherlock’s right. He squeezes once, and again. “It won’t come to that, I promise,” he says with fervor. “You have to trust me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. “I do,” he chokes out, and instantly the fire is back, a flare of fever chasing across his skin. Raw heat seems to rise from the desert sand, burning through his ridiculous shoes and along the length of his body, wrapping around him. Sherlock squeezes back, daring, and his vision actually sparkles, but it’s not the sun, or the dust of the oncoming threat that dazzles him. It’s  _ John, _ standing tall, protecting him, caring somehow, maybe, if that’s even possible,  _ please, _ just a little, reaching for Sherlock in this moment when Sherlock should be the most afraid he’s ever been, and suddenly he--isn’t.

“John, wait,” Sherlock says, and pulls him around so they’re facing each other. “Wait. Please.”

John searches his face. “Sherlock. What is it?”

Sherlock draws in a shuddering breath. “If I have to die, if I’m going to die…”

John shakes his head. “Sherlock, I won’t…”

“Wait,” Sherlock pleads. “If I’m going to die, I want--this.”

Sherlock leans forward and kisses him as though it’s their last moment on Earth.


	11. 10:00AM to 11:00AM

John’s eyes blink open a minute later. Sherlock is  _ right there, _ barely inches away, so near John can barely focus. Sherlock’s eyes are glowing a fierce green. This close, John can see the light dusting of freckles across Sherlock’s nose, which are perfectly set off by the slight hint of pink starting to spread across those improbable cheekbones. There’s sand in his hair, and his lips are lightly chapped. He’s breathtaking, and he just  _ kissed John. _

“Sherlock…” John breathes, and then says the only thing he can think of. “You’re not going to die.”

Sherlock’s face, so open just seconds before, shutters closed. “Right.” He looks away. “Of course. Sorry.” He drops his hands from where he was holding John’s shoulders and steps back, looking away. “My apologies.”

“No, wait,” John starts, but then he hears the roar of the Humvee’s engine. He looks down the road quickly, and yes, it’s getting close. The dust is beginning to stir where they are standing, and John knows they have only a minute at best before they will no longer be alone.

He draws in a deep breath. “We are going to talk about this later, do you hear?” Sherlock doesn’t respond. “Sherlock. Answer me.”

“I said I was sorry,” Sherlock snaps.

“And I’m saying you don’t need to be, but now is not the time.” John indicates the oncoming vehicle. “We need to get our heads in the game. All right? Pay attention, and follow my lead.”

Sherlock nods once, his expression now grim. Sherlock has the most expressive mouth he has ever seen, John realizes, and just seconds ago, it was pressed against his own. Sherlock  _ kissed _ him. John licks his lips unconsciously, savoring the faint taste of sand and salt. He feels almost dazed, and that’s a very bad thing, since a jacked-up jeep that could be full of people who want them dead is only moments away.

John purposely pinches his own leg, hard, and the pain shocks him back to full awareness. Sherlock is standing to the left and behind him, thrumming with nervous energy. John checks his gun once last time, and then lifts a hand to shield his eyes as the Humvee stops a few yards away.

The car sits there clicking for several moments as John squints and tries to get a look at the driver. Finally, the door opens, and a combat-booted foot steps out onto the sand. John feels the crack of clarity that hits him at the beginning of every fight. The Humvee is a recent model, unmarked by any national or military insignias; the desert is still, all the creature sounds silenced by the arrival of their visitor; and most interestingly, the foot of the driver, despite its protective covering, looks rather...small.

A figure in a khaki jumpsuit and combat helmet emerges from the car and steps around the door, pausing to scan the horizon. John hears Sherlock’s breath catch behind him, but he’s too busy processing the fact that the individual now turning their direction is petite, not even reaching the top of the Humvee’s door. The person opens the back door and pulls out a machine gun, throwing the strap over a khaki shoulder and shifting it into place with a quick shimmy. The gesture is familiar, John thinks with surprise, and he struggles to place it.

The figure takes a few steps, then stops to pull the combat helmet off. John’s mouth drops open. He stares for a long moment, and then bursts into laughter. 

“Here to save your arse again, Watson," the soldier's voice growls. "It’s getting a little old now.”

“Bloody hell,” John gasps, smiling broadly and shaking his head in disbelief as he wipes his eyes. “As I live and breathe. Martha Hudson.”

\---

The Humvee roars across the desert. Sherlock is carefully strapped in and holds tightly to the handle above the door. John is settled into the seat beside him, shoulder strap in place but turned so both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson can hear him.

“Major Hudson recruited me for the Special Investigations Branch,” John yells over the thunder of the engine. “Showed up at the base one day, just out of the blue. I had literally just walked out of surgery. She took me to the officer’s club and laid out the offer. Said she’d reviewed my records and talked to my commanding officers, but there was one more thing she needed to know. Told me to meet her at the shooting range the next morning. We shot at targets without speaking for an hour, and then she pulled off her headphones and told me the job was mine if I wanted it.” He shakes his head fondly. “I don’t think I said ten words the whole time. I didn’t know what had hit me.”

“It’s just Mrs. Hudson these days, Watson. I'm a civilian now, like you. And you left out the most important part of that story,” Mrs. Hudson shouts back, eyes sparkling in the rear view mirror.

John rolls his eyes. “Oh, of course. She blew me away on the range. Beat my target percentage by ten percent.”

“Twelve,” she corrects, smiling.

“Whatever,” John says, waving a negligent hand, but grinning. “I could kick your civilian arse right now. Just name the time and place.”

“Bullshit,” she answers succinctly. “You’d be crying inside of ten minutes. So John, tell me. What’s all this about? I’m visiting my sister in Arizona, and get a call from a bloke that sounds like the Queen’s bloody butler telling me a car will be out front in twenty minutes, and ‘would I please avail myself of it.’” She sniffs. “I would have told him to shove it, but he mentioned your name.”

John gazes at her fondly. “Aw, that’s sweet.”

“Sod off.” She’s smiling, but John can see she’s watching them closely. “They handed me an encrypted GPS scanner and the keys to this monster and told me to shoot anyone who looked like they were messing you about. Are you in trouble, Doc?”

John smiles. “Not now that you’re here.”

Mrs. Hudson snorts. “You always were a sweet talker.” Her gaze slides to Sherlock. “And what’s your story, pretty boy? You haven’t said a word.”

Sherlock blinks and looks to John, a question in his eyes. “It’s okay. She’s all right,” John says, as quietly as he can manage and still be heard. “Your brother chose well. I would literally trust her with my life.”

Sherlock frowns, but John nods encouragingly, and they both look back to the shrewd eyes watching them in the mirror. “I’m a scientist,” Sherlock says, his baritone carrying easily throughout the car. Despite himself, John shivers. “I’ve created an antidote to a biological weapon, and…”

“Oh, shit,” Mrs. Hudson cuts in. “You’re the one they’re all looking for, the one that was headed to the CDC. You’re all anyone at the base was talking about.” She shakes her head. “Jesus, Watson, you can’t even manage a simple delivery to Atlanta?”

John gives her a level stare back, all humor gone. “They gave us a plane. Want to guess who they gave us for a pilot?”

Mrs. Hudson blinks once, and John watches her eyes narrow to fierce slits. She immediately jerks the wheel to the right and stops the Humvee on the side of the road, throwing the gear into ‘park’ and flipping the ignition switch. John’s head buzzes in the sudden quiet. 

She draws a long breath in through her nose, and turns around in the seat to face them. “You’re telling me,” she says slowly, “that, out of all the pilots that the United Kingdom had to offer, you were assigned Sebastian Moran.” She spits the name, as though it tastes bitter in her mouth.

“They could have lent us someone from the U.S., too,” Sherlock interjects. “An American pilot would have been more familiar with the…” He trails off as John reaches over and puts a hand on his knee, shaking his head.

Mrs. Hudson pinches the bridge of her nose, her eyes screwed shut. “Not helping, dreamboat,” she mutters. 

Sherlock looks between the two of them and goes silent, pressing his lips tightly together.

Those lips, John starts to think, but then he pinches his leg again. Focus, Watson, he thinks, and forces his attention back to the angrily grumbling woman in the front seat.

“There’s no way that was a coincidence, John,” she says grimly. “I happen to know Moran was in the UK just two weeks ago. He must have come over for a reason, and it’s looking like your boy here was it.”

“If it helps, I think he’s dead,” John says, as he performs an automatic sweep of the horizon out his window. 

Mrs. Hudson looks up with a hopeful expression. “Did you shoot him?”

“No. We were fighting, and I smashed his head into the wall. Sherlock checked him. He couldn’t find a pulse.”

She sighs and starts rubbing her temples. “You were fighting. On a plane. In the air.”

“Well, he started it.”

“I’m sure.” She snorts, and then looks at John appraisingly. “Well, you got the thing down, at least. Good on you. What kind of plane?”

“C-21A.”

Her expression clears. “Oh, the little Learjet. I quite like that one. Was that your first landing, then?”

John nods. “Touched down on a highway, but the left gear collapsed right after landing.”

“Oh, that’s nothing. I landed one of those in a riverbed during a storm under missile fire. It was a miracle I was sober.” She turns back around and flips the ignition switch. “I need to think about this some more. Let’s head back to base, and we can debrief when we get there.” The engine roars to life. “There’s a cooler in the back with a couple of beers in it,” she yells over the noise. “It’s after five back home, you know.”

“I adore you,” John yells back, reaching over the backrest and lifting the cooler over to rest on the seat between him and Sherlock. He pulls two beers and an opener out and makes quick work of the caps. He hands one to Sherlock and takes a long drink from the other.

Sherlock stares down at the bottle in his hands. “She’s completely mad,” he says, looking up at John with wide eyes. 

“I know, bless her,” John says, and leans over to clink his bottle to Sherlock’s. “You get used to it.”

\---

The base isn’t very far away, which makes John wonder. It feels a little too convenient. He leans forward. “Whose base is this?”

“I’m not sure, honestly,” Mrs. Hudson says as she turns into the entrance. “This is where the car that picked me up dropped me, and they gave me quarters and told me to bring you back here. I didn’t see any kind of sign. But there wasn’t much time to look around.”

“Who briefed you?”

“A British Army captain and a civilian.”

“Civilian,” John says with surprise.

Mrs. Hudson nods as she pulls up to the guardhouse. She holds up her ID, and the guard waves them through. “Interesting,” John murmurs. “They didn’t ask who we were.” He glances over at Sherlock, who is looking out his own window with apparent curiosity. He didn’t finish his beer, John notices, and he’s been pulling at the label. Still nervous, then. About the base? About Mrs. Hudson? About him?

“Sherlock,” John starts in a low voice, but the Humvee turns sharply into a parking area in front of a small building and stops.

“Well. This is us,” Mrs. Hudson says briskly. “Go on in and get comfortable. There are two bedrooms, and each one has an en suite.” She points to the building across the narrow road. “I’m sure you’re hungry. I’ll grab some sandwiches and meet you in a few minutes. Coffee or tea?”

“Tea, please,” Sherlock says, with what sounds like longing.

She nods. “Coffee for you, Doc?” John grunts an affirmative. He’s busy looking around. It’s a small base, with no names on the buildings, just small plaques with numbers. The few cars he sees around are plain and unmarked, and even, he notes with a frown, have regular license plates instead of government ones. On a hunch he takes a few steps back and stretches up for a glimpse of the roof of their building. 

Sherlock is watching him closely, and follows John’s gaze to the roof. “It’s black,” he notes with surprise. “That’s not very energy efficient. Black absorbs light and converts it into heat. The windows are sealed, too...they must be spending a fortune on air cooling, especially in this desert.” He looks at John. “Why would they do that?”

“Black roofs are harder for bombers to target, especially at night.” He nods toward the windows. “Those look like blackout curtains, too. None of these buildings are big enough to be production hangars or warehouses, so I have to conclude that this is an intel base.”

Sherlock looks impressed. “All right, whose?”

John hums. “That, my clever friend, is the ten thousand dollar question.” Still thoughtful, he reaches into the car and pulls out his duffel. “Grab your backpack,” he says, as he walks toward the porch. “We might as well have a shower and a sandwich.”

The bathroom has everything he needs, and nothing he doesn’t. The water feels heavenly, but John focuses on keeping his shower quick and efficient.

Something about this place is putting him on edge, he thinks. It’s certainly the quietest base he’s ever been in; there’s almost no traffic, no planes overhead, no doors heard slamming through too-thin walls. He’d scanned the main room as they walked in, but all he’d seen were ordinary locks on the door and what appeared to be conventional double paned glass on the windows. Same for the bedroom, and the bathroom he’s using now. No cameras anywhere, either, at least none that John could identify. Not a safe house, then, he thinks, and not a holding cell. 

There’s nothing for it but to be patient, he thinks, as he steps out of the shower and reaches for a towel. They’ll learn more soon enough. He’ll keep his guard up, though. He’s certain Mrs. Hudson is doing the same.

Mrs. Hudson has unfolded a card table in the main room and is setting up chairs by the time John comes out, his duffel in hand. There’s a single cardboard coffee cup, three sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, and incongruously, a full tea service, complete with a porcelain teapot decorated with purple flowers. She nods at one of the sandwiches. “He’ll be out soon, I think,” she says, answering John’s unasked question. “The water in his bathroom shut off about ninety seconds after yours did.”

“He could be out any second, then,” John says, flopping into a folding chair.

“With that hair?” Mrs. Hudson chuckles. “I’m pretty sure we have a few minutes alone.”

John grunts and pulls both the sandwich and coffee toward him. He takes a long sip and groans with pleasure. “First, beer, then coffee,” he says with a smile. “Remind me why we never got married?”

“Because you were beneath me,” Mrs. Hudson says, as she takes the seat across from him. They each unwrap their sandwiches and take a bite, chewing for a minute in companionable silence.

John swallows and takes another sip of coffee. “Tell me,” he says quietly.

Mrs. Hudson takes a sip of her tea and looks without seeing at the wall for a long moment. “It’s an intel base,” she says, finally. “You know that, of course. No designations. Black roofs. Standard intel antennae on the central buildings and a full array at the back of the property. The usual equipment, nothing custom. Looks like those high end Ericsson models, though, so they spent some money. I drove by it all on the way out. Regular satellite in the mess hall. They have a TV in there, so that much is real, at least.” She frowns. “There’s a lattice tower, too.”

John blinks in surprise. “Telephones, then. Or short range communications.” That’s worth thinking about.  “Cameras?” 

“None in here.” She shakes her head. “No audio equipment either, at least that I could find. I saw you check the locks and windows. Outside, the CCTV is set for standard views -- streets, gates, entryways. I couldn’t find anything angled at this building specifically, which makes me wonder...

“...if that’s why we they put us here. No one sees us coming or going.” John frowns. “Basement?”

“None. No false bottoms or walls in the closets. Each of the bedrooms is basically the same: a dresser, a side table, an alarm clock, and a bed with a surprisingly decent mattress.” She takes a sip of her tea and widens her eyes in an obvious parody of innocence. John recognizes that look and braces himself. “Might you and your young man wish to test one of them, I could excuse myself...”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” John buries his face in his hands. “You saw us. I should have known. You have the eyes of a bloody hawk.”

She laughs. “Of course I did. John, you’re blushing.”

“Shut up.” John runs a hand through his hair and breathes out a deep sigh. “For the record,  _ he _ kissed  _ me." _

“Did he now,” Mrs. Hudson says blandly, eyebrows arched, as she takes another sip of tea.

“Ugh,” John mutters, crinkling up his sandwich paper and throwing it at her. “I hate you.” Mrs. Hudson laughs an evil-sounding laugh as she bats the paper away. 

She’s still laughing as a door opens and closes in the hallway. “Oh,” Sherlock says, pausing at the entrance to the main room. “Am I intruding?” His hair is wet and tousled, his skin flushed and his eyes bright, and the word  _ delicious _ crosses John’s mind before he ruthlessly brushes it away.

Mrs. Hudson waves him in. “Not at all! Come join us,” she says brightly, and indicates the one remaining chair. “The tea in the mess hall looked like shit,” she continues, “so I dug out some of my own.”

Sherlock seats himself slowly, looking between them, and then watches, hands politely clasped, as Mrs. Hudson pours him a cup of tea. He takes a cautious sip, brightens, and takes another, deeper drink. “Excellent tea.”

Mrs. Hudson leans back. “John Watson is a good friend of mine, and I know ten ways to kill you with my bare hands,” she observes casually. John chokes on his coffee.

She smiles benignly, watching John catch his breath. “Mrs. Hudson,” he finally manages, a warning in his voice.

“What?” she says, with a smile. “We’re just making conversation here, getting to know each other. I’m very protective of my friends, Sherlock, did you know? People like that about me. Also, I’m an accomplished sharpshooter with several kills to my name.”

John is red-faced, desperately signaling to Mrs. Hudson to leave it, for god’s sake, but Sherlock just stares at her for a long moment. “It’s still very good tea,” he says at last.

“It is, isn’t it?” she says smugly, ignoring John completely. “Eat your sandwich, dear.”

John groans, sinking his head back into his hands.

\---

The sandwich wrappers have been cleared and Sherlock is well into his third cup of tea when someone knocks on the door.

John starts to reach for his gun, but Mrs. Hudson quickly gets up and peeks through the curtains on the front window. She holds out her hand and shakes her head. “It’s the civilian,” she mouths.

John nods and opens the door. A beautiful woman stands on the porch, inexplicably dressed in a crisp black suit, creamy blouse, and shiny high heels. “Doctor Watson?” she asks in a bored voice, barely looking up from the cell phone she holds in both hands. 

“Yes, I’m John Watson,” John says, cautiously.

The woman flashes a brief, insincere smile without looking up from the screen. She’s texting, John realizes, and she’s quite quick on the keyboard. “Your presence is requested at a meeting, Doctor, as well as that of Dr. Holmes. We’re set up for a video briefing in the commander’s quarters.” She stops texting just long enough to point lazily over her shoulder. “Building nineteen, two blocks down and a block over. Fifteen minutes, please. Bring your things.”

John steals a quick glance at Mrs. Hudson, lifting his eyebrows, but she looks as confused as he is. “Might as well,” she murmurs, so low only John can hear. “You need to get on with the mission. She’s the one who brought me here, so she must know something.” 

John can’t argue with her logic. “Very well,” he says, and the woman nods once, turns sharply on one heel, and makes her way down the stairs, texting the whole while.

John slowly closes the door. “That was weird,” he says, and then is surprised when Sherlock starts to chuckle. 

“No. Well, yes, it’s weird, but not entirely unexpected. That was one of my brother’s assistants,” Sherlock says. “They all look like that. Odd to see one outside of Whitehall, but needs must, I suppose.”

“Hmm.” John looks from him back to the door. “I still think it was weird.”

“Well, I’m guessing you’re about to meet my brother via Skype, so try to keep an open mind,” Sherlock says with a sigh. “Things are probably about to get a lot weirder.” He tilts his head toward the hallway. “I left my backpack in the bedroom. I’ll go get it.”

Sherlock disappears into his room, and John swiftly crosses the room and takes Mrs. Hudson’s hands. “You’ll be all right here alone?” he asks, searching her face. “I’m sure we could bluff your way into this meeting if you--”

Mrs. Hudson is shaking her head. “No, go on. I’ll wait for you here. I’ve got my laptop, I think I’ll do a bit of research. Don’t you dare leave without saying goodbye, though.”

“You sure?” John frowns. “I don’t like this, Martha, I don’t like it one bit. It all feels--wrong,” he finishes helplessly.

“I know what you mean,” Mrs Hudson says with a calm smile. “But I wasn’t invited, and I think we’re going to have to let this one play out a bit.”

As usual, she's right. John sighs. “All right.” He squeezes her hands. “I always trust your instincts, you know that.”

She nods and squeezes back “I know. And look at it this way, when you inevitably need rescuing, I’ll be immediately available.”

“Smart arse.” John leans forward and kisses her forehead. “Thank you,” he breathes. “You’re the only person I would have trusted to save him. Us, I mean,” he adds quickly. “Not just him. Both of us.”

She leans back to search his face. John isn’t certain what she sees there, but whatever it is makes her close her eyes and shake her head in resignation. “Oh, John,” she whispers. “You’re so bloody screwed.”

John starts to ask what she means, but behind them, Sherlock walks into the room and clears his throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he says gently, looking away. “I'm afraid we need to get going.”

“Right,” John says. “Right.” After squeezing Mrs. Hudson’s hands one last time, he releases them, walks over to the table, and picks up his duffel. 

He throws the strap over his shoulder, and takes another few seconds to check his gun. By the time he’s done, his face is settled into a determined mask, and his body is tense and ready for action. He takes a brief look at Sherlock, who’s standing by nervously, holding his backpack in one hand. They're ready. It’s time. “Let’s go,” he says, and opens the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the Cold War, I grew up a couple of miles from two large aircraft R&D and production facilities, Rockwell International and McDonnell Douglas. It was well known but never discussed that the roofs of these huge complexes, both obvious targets in any international war, were painted a flat black so they'd be difficult to visualize on bombing runs. That sort of thing sticks with a kid, I guess.


	12. 11:00AM to Noon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be a good time to remind you, dear reader, of one of the most important characteristics of '24': absolute, unrepentant, occasionally ridiculous stretching of reality. Yes, the show was set was hour by hour, but some serious ground got covered in some of those hours. There were some very fast flights from LA to DC, for example. Just saying.

They step out onto the porch. It's truly hot outside now, the sun almost directly overhead. It’s just three steps down to the pavement, but Sherlock already feels a faint layer of sweat forming on his forehead and down his back. He hates this kind of heat. He _ hates _ it. It saps his spirit and makes his skin flush red. He should have stayed in England, he thinks, as they start up the sidewalk. He could have spent his sabbatical in Cambridge. You can always get a decent cup of tea in Cambridge. It’s cool there, and sometimes it rains. They have libraries. They have trains. There isn’t sand everywhere, or cacti, or scorpions just sitting on a rock in the middle of nowhere with nothing better to do than kill you. 

Sherlock makes a little “ugh” sound under his breath. Bloody  _ scorpions. _

He sees John glance curiously over at him from the corner of his eye, but Sherlock doesn’t slow to explain. There aren’t lethal ex-army doctors in Cambridge, either, at least as far as he knows, agents with their guns and their biceps and their calm assurances and their stupid  _ lips. _ John had promised they’d talk about the kiss (why had Sherlock gone and done that,  _ why), _ but Sherlock is thankful that he isn’t trying to bring it up now. He’s not looking forward to it, the careful rejection, the polite distancing, but as it is, he’s got other things to worry about. He’s grateful for the rescue, but he’s really not looking forward to speaking with his brother.

“All right?” John asks quietly, breaking into Sherlock’s worry with his gentle, concerned voice. 

There’s no way Sherlock can answer that honestly right now, so he hums a neutral response. 

John nods and looks around. “It’ll be nice to get some intel,” he says. “I’d love to know where the hell we are, for example.”

Sherlock considers this. Right this minute, he couldn’t pinpoint their current location on a map if he wanted to, and that’s not like him. He has a phone with a beyond state-of-the-art GPS, and theoretically, at least, it’s secure, but it had never occurred to him to look. After that single message to Mycroft, he’d slipped the phone back into his pocket and left it there without a second thought. He hadn’t made a conscious decision; he’d just trusted John. 

Mycroft won’t let that slip pass unmarked. Sherlock stifles another ‘ugh.’ This is going to be terrible.

They turn the corner to find a low-slung, stucco building with the typical bland plaque declaring it Building 19. It is similar in design to the others, except this one features a small satellite dish on one side, and more ominously, an armed guard at the door.

John lifts an eyebrow. “Unexpected company,” he says under his breath, as they approach the doorway. “Shall we?”

The guard nods once as they walk past him and through the doors.

Inside, the building is dimly lit and blessedly cool. The well dressed civilian woman from before is standing in the foyer, eyes again fixed on her mobile. “Gentlemen,” she says. “Thank you for being so prompt. You’re seven minutes early.”

“We’re three minutes late,” Sherlock says, drily.

Her eyes flick up, just for a second, to meet his. He doesn’t miss the amusement in her eyes. “Yes,” she agrees. “But Mr. Holmes had us plan for you to be  _ ten _ minutes late, so we’re actually ahead of schedule.” She inclines her head toward the hallway to her right. “Second door on the right. It’s open.”

John looks bemused by all of this, but Sherlock just sighs with resignation. He nods for John to lead the way.

The room is large for a conference room, well lit, with one long, wide table down the middle. A large screen is suspended from the ceiling over one end of the table, and a web camera is mounted on a tripod next to it. The display is currently dark. At the other end, a young woman sits in front of a large computer monitor. She’s a civilian, apparently, dressed in casual clothes and wearing comfortable shoes, her long hair arranged in a braid that curves around her shoulder. She’s typing quickly, intent on the screen in front of her, and doesn’t look up as John and Sherlock enter. They stand just inside the doorway for a long moment, watching her. John finally clears his throat, and she jumps at the sound.

“Oh!” She blinks and turns to stare at them. It’s not an unfriendly look, but there is appraisal in it. An intelligent woman, Sherlock thinks. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock says blandly, as he walks over and sets his backpack on one of the chairs.

The woman watches him. “You’re the brother,” she says, as her eyes narrow. 

“I’m the package,” he corrects, with an arched brow.

“I guess that makes me the delivery man,”John says cheerfully, stepping forward. “Agent John Watson.”

She blinks at him for a few seconds, and then takes his proffered hand. “Molly Hooper,” she says slowly. “Tech agent.”

John beams. “Excellent. Maybe you can tell us--”

John is interrupted when the large video display blinks and then comes to life. There’s one final second of respite, and then Sherlock’s brother comes into view.

“Ah, there you are, at last. As usual, Sherlock, we have accommodated your late arrival.” Sherlock sneers in acknowledgement, and Mycroft sniffs in return. “Captain Watson,” Mycroft says, pronouncing each syllable with precision. “We meet at last. A tragedy it cannot be in person.”

“It’s really not,” Sherlock says, as he settles into the chair closest. After a moment’s pause, John follows suit and takes the seat next to him. He doesn’t answer Mycroft, and this pleases Sherlock. He takes a peek at John, who is now sitting at attention, if that’s possible, hands clasped and stone-faced beside him. This could be fun, Sherlock thinks, if John lets his inner arsehole do the talking.

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow at the lack of response. “Miss Hooper,” he drawls. “Would you be so kind as to tell Lewis and Clark here where they are?”

“Lewis and Clark were Americans,” Sherlock tells the ceiling. 

“Yes, well,” Mycroft says, smiling thinly. “When in Red Rock, little brother.”

“Oh. Well, as you’ve heard, we’re in Red Rock, New Mexico,” Molly says, sounding just the tiniest bit irritated. “Or rather, just outside it.” Mycroft’s image shrinks to a quarter of the screen, and a map of the southwestern United States comes up on the rest of it. “The plane went down--here, in Greenlee County, just on the Arizona side of the New Mexico-Arizona border.” A small red ‘X’ comes up on the map, in the middle of an empty, tan-colored expanse. “You covered about six kilometers between the time you landed and the time Mrs. Hudson picked you up. Now we’re here--” A blue ‘X’ this time. “Approximately three kilometers east of Red Rock.” 

Mycroft appears to be studying his nails. “Six kilometers,” he observes blandly. 

Sherlock turns to look directly into the camera. “Happy to race you anytime you say,” he says, in the same bored tone.

Mycroft’s face takes on a superior, knowing look. Christ, how Sherlock hates that look. “Had a nice walk, did you? Plenty of time for, shall we say, scenic detours?” His gaze appears to slide toward John. Sherlock knows it’s a trick, that Mycroft is only looking to the side of his own camera to make his point known, but he feels his hackles rise just the same.

He manages to stay calm, though, and feels briefly proud of the fact. “Agent Watson took the time to teach me how to shoot,” he says, and if under the table he’s squeezing his own knee so hard it hurts, no one has to know.

Mycroft blinks. “Shoot,” he repeats.

Sherlock inclines his head. “Yes.”

“You mean a gun,” Mycroft says, with just a bit of disbelief.

“Yes.”

“And that’s not a euphemism.”

Sherlock closes his eyes as he realizes his mistake (he walked right into that one, really), but John, who has been studying the map all this time, turns to the camera. “He’s quite good at it, you know,” he says, steely-eyed, and oh, how Sherlock wishes he had kissed him twice. “A natural marksman, your brother.”

“I see.” Mycroft hums. “I’ll have to add another skill set to your profile, brother. Well done, I suppose. Miss Hooper, please continue the briefing.”

Molly scowls. “The plane crash next.” A picture of the bent, twisted jet comes up on the screen. “The wreckage was discovered and secured by the US Army shortly after 10:00AM this morning. Per protocol, you were not being actively tracked by either civilian or military radar stations, so it took us a while to realize you were down.”

“That’s a little longer than I would have expected,” John says, frowning.

Mycroft nods. “That was my feeling as well, Agent, but all appears to be in order. The search was carried out according to established protocols, but the wreckage wasn’t located until the copilot fired the flare gun. A full team was on site seven minutes after that.”

“They’re computers, not crystal balls,” Molly snaps. “We do the best we can.”

Sherlock swallows a smile as he watches Mycroft process her comment. He’s guessing it’s been a long time since Mycroft was on the receiving end of so much sass.

“Apologies if I offended,” Mycroft says at last. “Please proceed, Miss Hooper.”

Molly sniffs. “Right then. Mr. Holmes got your text at 0650, Dr. Holmes.” She pauses. “Do I have to keep saying Mr. and Dr. Holmes? It’s really annoying.”

Sherlock grins. “Call me Sherlock,” he says, and then, waving a hand at the screen, “and he’ll be ‘Your Majesty.’” Mycroft sighs and John gives a soft little snort of laughter. This is going so much better than Sherlock could have expected.

Molly gives him a quick half-smile. “Thank you, Sherlock. Your brother got the text and immediately notified our agency. We activated personnel recovery protocols, which included taking over this base. We managed to--”

“Excuse me,” John interrupts. “What is this agency, exactly?”

Molly flashes a quick look toward the screen, and Mycroft gives a single, quick nod. “We’re a counterterrorism agency, a civilian offshoot of the Special Investigations Branch. We just call ourselves CTU.”

“Civilian offshoot…” John echoes, in a cautious tone. “Under whose command?”

“Mine, right now,” Mycroft interjects. “The agency functions under the command of MI6, but answers directly to the Queen and her ministers.”

John frowns. “That’s crazy.”

Mycroft lifts one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “And yet, here we are. Miss Hooper, if you would.”

“I’d be done if people wouldn’t keep interrupting,” Molly grumbles. “Anyway, the copilot is fine. A bit dehydrated, some bruises, and what he described as ‘an absolute bitch of a headache.’ Analysis identified rohypnol in his blood.”

Sherlock stirs. “We knew he’d been drugged,” he says. He feels a quick flash of anxiety now, thinking about the tea, those terrible words in that smooth voice--

“The pilot,” John says flatly. “We left him for dead. You found the body?” Molly hesitates, and John’s eyes narrow. “What.”

There’s a pause. “There was a cabin recorder. It’s not standard equipment, but we had time to get one installed. The crash site team recovered it,” Molly says, finally. “We know what happened, but--”

“There was no sign of Sebastian Moran at the crash site,” Mycroft finishes. 

John explodes. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he yells directly into the camera. He pushes back from the table and to his feet. Sherlock leans back to get out of the range of fire, but he’s watching Mycroft closely on the screen all the while. He sees the tells--the small blinks, the glances away and back, even a brief bite of the lower lip. Mycroft is  _ hiding _ something. “Someone else got in there first and got the body? Did you look for footprints? Is there satellite coverage over that area?”

Molly is pale, but she answers in a firm voice. “The area around the plane was swept clean. We thought you might have done it, to hide your tracks. And there should be satellite footage, but it seems to be distorted. Solar flares or something. We’re requesting civilian recordings right now, but that takes time. There’s a weather satellite that should--”

John is pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just tell me one thing,  _ Your Majesty," _ he grits out. “How did that bastard Sebastian Moran get this assignment in the first place?”

“That’s a very good question,” Molly says quietly, and Sherlock glances over at her. She’s watching Mycroft’s face on the screen, and her expression is suspicious. She’s wrong, Sherlock thinks, it’s not Mycroft himself who needs watching, but she’s not far off. Pieces are falling into place for Sherlock now, but he stays quiet. He needs think things through before he says anything. He needs to talk to John, alone.

Mycroft, for his part, looks quietly furious now, which is unprecedented. “Enough of this,” he says sharply. “We’ll do a full debrief later, after the terrorists have been neutralized. You do all remember them, right? The ones with the biological weapons?” He stops to draw in a long breath. “Miss Hooper.”

Molly’s eyes are still narrowed. “Not sure what else you want me to say. The goal is to get your arses to Atlanta. So go get your arses to Atlanta. There will be a helicopter on the helipad at the end of this road in thirty minutes. Don’t miss it.”

John is glaring at the screen. “We won’t,” he says with certainty. “Did you actually manage to read the pilot’s file this time, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft flushes, but he lifts his chin and meets John’s sneer with a haughty gaze. “I reviewed it myself,” he says, “much like I reviewed yours.”

Sherlock rises, briefly putting himself between John and the camera. “Then we should be fine,” he says calmly. He looks directly into John’s face to make sure he has his full attention, and then he cuts his gaze sharply to the door. John’s eyes broaden briefly in understanding. Sherlock makes the quarter turn to face Molly. “May I assume you’ll be monitoring our progress personally?”

Molly’s eyes widen briefly as she processes the request behind that statement. “Yes, I believe that is my assignment,” she says carefully. “I’ll have eyes on until you drop your bag at the CDC.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says with a brief, genuine smile. He turns back to the camera and stares into it directly. “Always a pleasure, brother mine,” he intones with a tiny bow, and he bends to pick up his backpack.

“A moment, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, and Sherlock straightens at the new tone in his voice. It’s crisp and determined and completely at odds with his next question. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock blinks with surprise. “What?”

“After the plane crash. How are you feeling? Did you sustain any injuries? Bump your head?” Mycroft says the last three words with particular distinction, and Sherlock suddenly understands what he’s really asking. 

He rolls his eyes.”Yes, Mycroft. John has the code.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I hope you’re choosing your associates wisely,” he says, and Sherlock hears the “this time” Mycroft intended to imply. He bristles, but Molly looks up from her screen.

“As we’ve just confirmed, Agent Watson was carefully vetted per your instructions, sir.” 

Sherlock wants to buy Molly excellent tea--no, she’s a coffee drinker. A mocha, then, and a delicious biscuit of some sort. “There you go, Mycroft. Don’t blame me.”

Mycroft sighs. “I am not on site, Sherlock. I trust you to do the legwork.”

Sherlock smiles brightly. “I have. Good day, Mycroft. Miss Hooper, cut the feed.”

The screen goes dark, and John takes a deep breath. “Sorry, both of you,” he says, looking abashed. “I shouldn’t have gone off like that.”

“Bugger,” Molly says. “You should have gone off  _ exactly _ like that.” She stands and hands them both plastic manila envelopes. “Comm gear,” she says simply. “Earpieces and collar mikes with built in GPS. There’s also a separate tracker bud. I’d recommend putting it in your shoe. If you’re captured and stripped, they might burn your clothes, but they rarely think to burn shoes. Nobody ever thinks about that, but it’s true.”

John blinks. “We should have had all this before.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t your tech agent before.” Molly smiles. “Enjoy the upgrade. You’ve got--” She checks her watch. “Twenty-five minutes before your helicopter arrives. It won’t have a galley. Go get some coffee.”

“Great idea,” John says. “Do you want any?”

“She likes mochas,” Sherlock says absently, as he examines his new gear.

“Jesus, yeah,” she agrees with a grateful smile. “And make it a large one. I have the feeling this is going to be a long day.”

\---

“Not a nice man, your brother,” John says, as they walk down the sidewalk. 

“Oh, you think so?” Sherlock answers with a broad, false grin. “I don't know. He was positively overflowing with goodwill just then. I mean, for him.”

John grimaces. “Has it always been this way between you? This--tense?”

Sherlock looks down at the pavement and thinks. “As long I can remember,” he says at last. “My mother said it was different when we were younger, but…” He gives a little shrug. “Mycroft is very ambitious.”

“I'm sorry,” John says quietly. “Family is complicated.” 

They walk in silence for another minute. “He’s hiding something from us,” Sherlock says finally. 

To Sherlock’s surprise, John just nods. “I thought so, too.” He stops and turns until they are facing each other. “We don’t have time now, but there’s obviously another level to this that’s being kept from us. We just need to do our part. There’ll be some sort of investigation later, I’m sure, and it will all come out then.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Mycroft will block any investigation,” he says with certainty. “He’s very, very good at protecting his interests.”

“We crashed a jet, Sherlock. An American jet. In the American desert. And someone  _ died." _

“Playground equipment and collateral damage,” Sherlock replies. “Mycroft wants these terrorists stopped, John. Not just stopped, but ended.  _ Destroyed. _ As long as the ends are achieved, the means are irrelevant.”

John stares at him. “I’d almost admire that, if I didn’t have the strongest sense that you and I might count as means.”

“It’s true, I’m afraid.” They start walking again. “We just need to keep our eyes open.”

John looks over at him again. “You sound very philosophical about all of this.”

Sherlock stops again. “John, I--” He scratches his head and considers. “I don’t have a choice. I’m not a man of action, I’m just a scientist. A bloody good scientist, but still. All I want to do is learn about the world, to explain things that haven’t been explained before. I just want to plan my experiments and write my papers, not run around like--” He motions around them. “I’m not a hero.”

John smirks. “I don’t know that there really are heroes, Sherlock.”

“Really? I have to say, you seem the type.”

“Ha.” John’s laugh sounds bitter. “I am far from being a hero. I’m probably more of a janitor now, if I’m being honest with myself.” He won’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. “When I was a doctor, I saved lives, you know? Every day. And when I became an investigator, I was making things better at least, fishing out the bad actors and protecting the soldiers.” He sinks his hands into his pockets, and he looks so sad that Sherlock’s heart aches a little. “But now...I’ve lost all of that now, you know? I’m just a man with a gun for hire, doing the jobs no one else wants to do, or that the military might need to deny someday. I’m no better than a mercenary. And I’m working for men like your brother now, apparently, and that feels even worse.”

Sherlock reaches across and places a tentative hand on John’s arm, squeezing once before pulling back. “You saved my life, John,” he says quietly. John bites his lip, still looking away. “We’ll get to Atlanta and I’ll get the antidote into production, and those are lives you will have saved, too. Maybe you’re not a hero, but--” Sherlock shrugs, blushing a little. “You’re the closest thing I’ve ever met.”

John snorts, but he’s smiling a bit. “Well. You don’t get out much, by your own admission.” He checks his watch. “You know, speaking of heroes, we’ve got about twelve minutes left until the helicopter arrives. Do you mind if I check on Mrs. Hudson? The building is right by the mess hall. We can grab a coffee, and I'll just run across the street. I’m sure they’ll be sending her home soon, and I’d like to say goodbye.”

“That’s fine. Actually, do you mind if I sit here and wait?” He motions to a shady bench set under a small grove of trees in front of another of the nondescript buildings. “I could use a minute to catch my breath.”

“Can’t blame you,” John says. “Do you want anything?”

Sherlock smiles. “Just tea.”

“Ah, right. The answer to everything." John looks around quickly. "You should be all right while we’re still on base. Just--wait right here, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“You know, I doubt they’ll leave without us. Take your time.”

John waves as he walks away, and Sherlock watches as he turns the corner. He gives it a full sixty seconds.

“You can come out now,” he says at last. “Bloody cowards.”

A man steps out from behind one of the trees and moves to stand close to him. “Now, now, Dr. Holmes. Be nice.”

“I will if you will. There are two of you, I’m sure of it.”

“You’re right,” says an oily voice behind him, and Sherlock’s hair stands on end. “But I’d rather not be seen. Or at least not captured on camera. Don’t turn around.”

“No,” Sherlock says, disbelieving. “You’re dead. I saw you.”

“Obviously you’re not the medical type of doctor,” says Sebastian Moran, a sneer in his voice, “or you’d know that a person on--”

“Beta blockers,” Sherlock completes. “Obvious. Beta blockers lower blood pressure. If the dose is high enough, and the person has suffered trauma or is going into shock, it could make it hard to find a pulse.” Damn it. He shouldn't have missed that. Bloody shock.

“Or if the person checking the pulse is freaking out, that might do it too. Science is fascinating, isn’t it? Now, drop the tech and follow my friend here to a place we can talk.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then a lot of people die.”

Sherlock hangs his head for a moment. His heart is racing, but his mind is clear. He’d realized they were being followed as soon as he and John had hit the sidewalk. It had taken some time to figure out how to play this; John’s conversation had proven highly distracting. But then John had mentioned Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock had seen the way clear. John will come back to find Sherlock gone. He’ll be upset, maybe, but he’ll know what to do: he’ll give Mycroft the code, and together, they’ll make sure the backup plan goes into action. Getting the antidote produced and into the field won’t be as effective without his personal experience to guide it, Sherlock knows, but it will work well enough. And of course, John won’t die protecting him. That feels more important than the rest, somehow.

Sherlock sighs and pulls the earpiece from his ear, letting it fall to the ground. He rises slowly, and follows the man around the building to a secluded alley. Once they are well away from view, Moran slips from the shadows to stand before him. The other man takes Sherlock’s wrists and pulls his arms back.

Moran looks him up and down. “Well now, handsome. Before we get going, I've got some unfinished business to see to. First, thanks for leaving me for dead.”

Moran pulls back and punches Sherlock once, hard, in the abdomen. Sherlock’s breath leaves his body in a whoosh. It hurts, but at least it’s not the head. Sherlock coughs once, and his ears are ringing. It doesn’t seem right that birds in the trees just a few yards away are still singing. It’s noon; he thought birds only sang at sunrise. Or is it sunset? It occurs to him that he could yell for help. Is that the right thing to do? Is it worth the risk? Can he trust anyone on this base besides John? Molly, maybe, but she’s not close enough to hear.

He straightens and glares at Moran, who smiles back at him. “Now, thanks for making me look bad to my boss.”

Moran hits him again, a little higher, closer to the chest than the belly. His knees threaten to give, but the man behind him won’t let him fall. He can feel his side throbbing, and when he tries to catch his breath, he has to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. A cracked rib, maybe two. The sun is still shining. The alley smells of petrol. John was three minutes away from the mess hall. Three minutes to get the drinks at best, and factoring in three minutes with Mrs Hudson...it should still be a couple of minutes before he heads back this way. Chat him up, Mrs Hudson, Sherlock thinks desperately.

“And finally...thanks for turning me down.” Moran leans close and licks his lips. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

Moran rears back and hits him again, and this time the sky goes dark.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone with any familiarity with the show beyond the basic concept has asked me about Chloe, the brilliant, ascerbic, almost painfully loyal analyst played with clever wit by Mary Lynn Rajskub. They were right to ask; 24 wouldn't have been the same without her. I've tried to work her into the story in a way that's true to 'Sherlock' as well.


	13. Noon to 1:00PM

John ends up being gone longer than he’d planned. Mrs. Hudson may be lethal, but out of the uniform and away from war zones, she’s always been quite the hugger.

When he gets back to the bench, a tray of insulated cups in one hand, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. 

John frowns. He’s certain this is where he left him--here, on this bench, in the shade. He’d felt Sherlock’s eyes on him as he’d walked down the street, and had looked back quickly as he turned the corner to be sure. Sherlock had been watching him, yes. Staring at him, in fact.

So where the hell is he now?

John noses around the bushes a bit, and peeks into some windows, but there’s no sign of him. There’s a receptionist sitting calmly in the front room of the building, but she tells John she hasn’t seen anyone all morning. She seems glad for the interruption, and John is inclined to believe her.

His palms are beginning to sweat, and his heart is pounding. He makes the trip back to the commissary at a run, but there’s no sign of him there, either. The eyes of the friendly woman behind the counter widen at John’s description. “I’d remember a man who matched that description, I think, sir,” she said, with an appreciative waggle of her eyebrows, and John realizes he may have been a bit too enthusiastic with his adjectives. Outside the mess hall, he stops and looks up and down the street. It’s quiet, very quiet. There’s not a car to be seen, even in driveways or in front of the buildings. Something is tickling at the back of his brain, but he dismisses it. 

He runs back across the street to their original building and fairly bursts through the door. The teapot and cups from before are laid out to dry on a dishtowel on the counter. Mrs Hudson is zipping up her bag, but she looks up with surprise at John’s dramatic reappearance.

“He’s gone,” John blurts. “Sherlock, I mean. I can’t find him anywhere.”

Mrs. Hudson straightens, and her eyes narrow to fierce slits. “Tell me,” she says with a tone of command, and her steely reaction drives home the realization that this could be really, really bad.

He’s staring at her, wide eyed, as the sound of a helicopter filters into the room.

\---

John runs out onto the porch, the tray of drinks somehow still in one hand. “Check with your tech,” Mrs. Hudson says from the doorway behind him, and her tone is flat and determined. “I’ll run some contacts and see if there’s any chatter. Be sure to let me know if you hear anything. Go on, now.”

John nods and turns on his heel. He bounds down the stairs, very nearly pivoting in midair to turn toward Building 19. “Molly? Can you hear me?” He adjusts his earpiece and tilts his head down to puff into the microphone attached to his collar.

“Don’t do that,” he hears Molly snap, and her voice is as clear as if she’s standing right next to him. He hears the clacking of a keyboard, her steady breathing. “Why aren’t you on that chopper?”

“Is this line secure?” John asks carefully, despite his breathlessness, and the typing stops. 

“Hold on,” she says after a moment. He hears a few more clicks, and Molly hums under her breath. “It is now,” she says. “What’s going on?”

John draws in a deep breath. “Sherlock is missing.”

To her credit, Molly doesn’t hesitate. “Get back here,” she says, and the clacking sounds pick up again, even quicker than before. “I’ll bring up the video feeds from between here and the commissary.”

The guard is still standing by the door, looking stern, and John gives him a quick nod as he flies by. There’s no one in the lobby this time. Molly doesn’t look up as he skids into the room.

She shakes her head, eyes still on her screens. “Nothing. There’s nothing. He just disappeared,” she says, almost growling. Her eyes are flashing from screen to screen, and she scowls as John steps around to look over her shoulder. “I’m pretty sure it’s intentional, too. Look. Here’s the feed five minutes before...see?”

John nods. The bench where he last saw Sherlock is clearly visible.

“Now you two come down the road, and the view switches to this.” She clicks her mouse, and the angle changes. John is there, walking toward the camera and the mess hall, but the bench, and Sherlock, presumably, can’t be seen.

John curses under his breath. “Someone was tracking us the entire time.”

“Yup,” Molly says, grim faced. “And by changing the camera angle, they made sure they were the only ones.” She tapped the screen. “I scanned the rest of this stream. It’s just a bunch of birds hopping around until you come back.”

“Damn it, Molly.” John braces his hands on the desk and takes a long, slow breath. It doesn’t help. “They took him. Someone  _ took _ him.”

She nods. “Maybe, or someone came after him, and he’s hiding. Either way, he couldn’t have gotten very far.”

“Hmm.” John straightens and runs one hand through his hair. He’s trying to think, to keep his mind clear, but he senses that he’s on the knife edge of panic. “Do you have infrared capability on this set up?”

Molly stares at him. “No…” She nods slowly and turns back to her keyboard. “...but I could access one of our satellites. There’s one in geostationary orbit monitoring this site.”

“You have a satellite monitoring this location? Just this base?”

“Yeah, well…” She winks at him. “You two are kind of a big deal for us, you know. We keep a week’s worth of scans in the memory and I do have infrared capability there. It's a good idea.”

He nods, barely acknowledging the praise. “How long?”

“Sixty seconds.”

“Fine.” John pulls his coffee from the tray, and sets the mocha next to Molly, who nods her thanks as she works. He blinks at the one remaining cup in the tray, and then moves to look out the window. The blinds are down, the slats open just enough for John to stand at an angle and see out to the street. Not that there’s anything to see out there, he thinks. It’s quiet, not a car in sight.

There’s that strange sensation in his brain again, and this time he stops to pay attention to it. It takes a couple of seconds for the realization to creep into his consciousness. There’s no one around, no one on the street, no cars in front of any of the buildings. The base has gone dark, he realizes. No witnesses. No distractions. No collateral damage. It would take a lot of authority to shut things down like this. Whatever is happening is coming from pretty high up.

“Got it,” Molly says, and then, “Oh. Bloody hell.”

John is quickly back at her side. “What?”

“This is where you left him.” She points to a glow on the screen. “That’s him on the bench, I think, but look.” She zooms the picture out to include the yard in front of the building, and the area just around it. “Two more figures, here and here.” They watch in silence as the jerky stop-action pictures show two glowing shapes moving into position next to and behind Sherlock. John points at the screen. “That one would have been in the bushes,” he says quietly. “No one could have seen him. They surrounded him.” He closes his eyes for just a second, shakes his head once to clear his mind. “Can you speed it up?”

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I’ll cut the resolution. It’ll hop every three seconds.”

The two of them watch as the figures start to move around the building, pausing in the alley way. John clenches his fists as two of the figures merge nearly into one, and the third one moves in and backs away.

“They’re touching him,” Molly breathes. “One is holding him back, and the other one is…”

“Hitting him,” John finishes harshly. 

“Oh,” Molly says quietly. They watch as the dots move toward together down the alley, pause, and then move quickly off the screen. 

“I can open it up and go back to day view,” Molly says. “We know where to look now. It will only take a minute.”

“No need. They obviously loaded him into a car. They’ve got him, Molly. They’re probably off the base by now.”

Molly bites her lip. “I’m sorry, John.” She brightens. “Maybe they couldn’t get him through the gate! They could have…”

He rubs his cheek and considers. “Can you give me real time on the guardhouse?”

Molly nods and taps at her keyboard. The image shifts to a view of the front gate. She lets out a long exhale. “That’s--that’s a lot of guys.”

John sighs. “Yeah, it is. Easily twice as many guys as there were when we came in, and there’s no one on the street. There’s some sort of lockdown in place, and they didn’t bother to tell us, so we have to assume the whole base is part of it.”

“But the helicopter...” Molly says thoughtfully. “It got in.”

“Well, it’s a CTU chopper, isn’t it? They’re outside the regular chain of command. It’s not like they need air traffic control to land. They can go wherever they want. Besides, whoever is doing this isn’t stupid enough to open fire without a reason.” He closes his eyes again.  _ Come on, _ he thinks.  _ Solve this. _

He opens his eyes. When in doubt, update your status report. “Mission assessment. The package is missing.” Molly opens her mouth to speak, but John holds up a hand. “Hopefully only temporarily, but he’s off the range for now. Intel, while brilliant--” He gives her a little nod. “--has been limited by hostile intent, identity of the perpetrators unknown. Personnel resources are scant--you, me, Mrs. Hudson.” His eyes grow wide. “Oh, shit, Mrs. Hudson. Can you raise her?”

Molly nods, typing quickly. “Linked her phone into your comm. It’s secure. Raising her now.”

“Mrs. Hudson? Martha, listen. This is a secure line. Mission is compromised. We have evidence Sherlock has been taken by persons unknown. I’m declaring this hostile territory. Code Everglades. Repeat, Everglades.”

John hears her laptop slap shut. “Understood,” she says crisply. “I identified three escape routes when I first came in, so I’m ready to run. I’ll be in London this time tomorrow. Are you coming?”

“No, not yet. I have to find Sherlock. But they’ll be coming for you soon. Don’t let them get you, Martha.”

“I’d like to see them try,” she answers, and John can hear her fierce grin. “Standard update protocol?”

“Unknown. If we can get clear, I’ll set up a relay.” He hesitates. “Martha, be careful. I don’t know how far these bastards are willing to go, but…”

“John, I’ve got it. I’ll be fine. Now go get your boy.”

“He’s not my…”

“Shut up.” The comm clicks off to the sound of her dry chuckle.

John sighs. “She always has to get the last word,” he murmurs, and then shifts his attention back to Molly. “All right. I think it’s pretty obvious we aren’t going to fix this on our own. We need help, and there’s a helicopter just down the street that wants to give it to us. What do you think, is the guard on the porch meant to keep others out, or to keep us in?”

Molly blinks in surprise. “There’s a guard? We were supposed to be low profile. I don’t know anything about a guard.”

“Yeah...shit. That’s that answered, then.” John feels it again, another ping of instinct, though this time it only reinforces a conclusion he’s already drawn. 

It’s time to get creative. They can use the guard to their advantage: escape without his notice, and no one will think they’re gone. It might buy them a few minutes. He sneaks an appraising glance over at Molly. She seems fairly fit, and he never underestimates the power of adrenaline--he’s sure she’ll be able to run when it comes to it. The landing pad is just a few blocks away. They will make it. They’ll reach the chopper, and lift off, get safely away and--

Leave Sherlock behind. 

John feels a pang of guilt, mixed with more than a little sorrow. There’s nothing for it; they won’t be able to find him from a cell. Still, he thinks. Still. He wishes there was another way, that they had at least some idea of who was behind all of this. No decent criminal would be able to resist that brain, John is certain; if they want Sherlock to work for them, that buys them some time. He’ll fight them, John knows. Sherlock is a brave man. He thinks of him strapping himself into a falling plane, taking aim at a cactus with fierce determination, of preparing for his own possible capture with only a lucky lab coat in his backpack, and that single, lip-searing kiss--

No. Fuck this. They will get him back, but they're going to need help.

He turns back to Molly. “We’re going to make a run for that chopper,” he says decisively. “Pack up what you need, and make it light. We’re going to have to move fast.”

Molly goes pale. “We are?”

“Yes. Problem?”

“No, it’s just that--I don’t--I’ve never been in the field before. I’ve all the training, of course, and I, I don’t know, I work out and all, but--”

“Molly,” John interrupts, looking her straight in the eye. “Hostile territory, remember? I can’t leave you here.” He smiles with what he hopes is reassurance. “You’ll be brilliant.”

“Right. Okay.” she says, a bit breathless. “I can take the laptop, it’s secure.”

He smiles. “Go get it, then.” He reaches behind him and quickly checks his gun. Loaded and ready. There’s a second clip in his pocket, but he’s hoping he won’t need it. He won’t be able to hold out for long against an entire base. “Check the camera angles. Are there any weaknesses in their coverage?”

Molly checks the zipper on her jacket and settles the strap of the laptop bag over her shoulder before reaching down to her keyboard. “Full coverage on the front door. Checking the other cameras...no...no...nope...ah, wait. Here.” She points to the monitor. “See this camera? It covers the space between this building and the next.”

John frowns at the monitor, and then looks over at the window. “Right out there?”

“Yeah. That tree there ends up blocking most of the window from view. They must have placed the camera before they planted it.” She watches the screen closely. “Looks like it sweeps every ten seconds,” she says. “Not much time, but if we time it right we can get out and down before it comes back around. I’ll transfer the feed to my phone.”

“Okay, good. Assuming we get out of here, I didn’t see a path to the landing pad that would keep us out of sight, did you?”

Molly shakes her head. “Nothing easy. It’s protocol to evaluate escape routes any time you establish a new tech station. Our choices are basically head straight down the pavement, or sneak along behind the houses. Both are monitored with cameras. There’s a lot of brush behind the houses, so that wouldn’t be easy going.”

“Shit. Okay, then, the road it is.” John walks over and peers through the slats of the blinds. “There’s cover,” he says. “Just a hedge, but it’s better than nothing.” He pulls the blinds up halfway and opens the window. The locks for the screen are stiff, but after a moment of effort he manages to get them open and the screen detached. He fumbles while trying to pull it back through the window, though, and it falls into the brush outside with a slight clatter. Both of them freeze, listening closely for someone to come charging up the hallway. It all stays silent and still, and after a long minute, both breathe a sigh of relief.

“Right,” says John. “I’ll go first. Tell me when.”

Molly stares at her phone. “Ten seconds...five... _ now." _

John pushes himself through the window and lands easily on his feet next to the fallen screen. He drops immediately into a crouch and moves the screen to one side. Molly looks over the window ledge, brow creased with worry, but John smiles reassuringly and motions for her to come down.

After another few seconds, she does.

“Good,” John breathes. They huddle close together behind the hedge and look down at Molly’s phone. “This is it, then. We’ll have to hope we got a bit of lead time with our unorthodox exit.” He points to her bag. “Keep everything close to you in case we have to run for it, but otherwise, try to act like we belong here. Not a care in the world. Got it?”

She looks back at him with wide eyes, but nods once. “Got it.”

“We’ll stay close to the house until we reach the front. Can you check the feed and get us out on the street without being seen?”

“Um, yeah. Let me--” Molly pokes at her phone for a few seconds. “It’s another ten second sweep, so we’ll have to be quick, but it should work.”

“Great. Shall we?” John motions along the wall. “Let’s get to the corner, and then we’ll make a break for it. You first.”

They shuffle in a low crouch toward the street. Molly stumbles once, and John’s foot lands hard on a sharp rock, but they manage to stay quiet. Once they reach the front of the house, Molly checks her phone while John gets a good look at the street. The guard is still on the porch, looking bored, but otherwise there’s no one to be seen. He shuffles back and leans against the house next to Molly.

“Our friend is still there, but otherwise we’re clear,” he whispers. “What’s the word?”

“The camera for this area is mounted across the street.” Molly points to a pole just visible around the bush, and John can see the security camera through a hole in the brush. “It’s on a clockwise sweep, and we’re going the opposite direction, so that will buy us a couple of extra seconds. Won’t do anything about the guard, though.” She hesitates. “Should we--are you going to take him out?”

John frowns. It isn’t as if he hadn’t thought about it. “I don’t want to,” he murmurs. “There’s a good chance he doesn’t know what’s going on. For all he knows, we’re bad guys.” He gives her a thin smile. “We do have accents, after all.”

Molly grins. “Good thing Mycroft isn’t here. They’d think he was every James Bond villain rolled into one.”

John nearly snorts out loud, but catches himself just in time. “Too true.” He looks around the corner one more time. “All right, let’s do this. Give me a count of three.”

“Five seconds...one, two,  _ three." _

They stand and move quickly through a gap in the hedge. John takes Molly’s arm. “Easy, now,” he murmurs, and she nods and follows. The guard apparently doesn’t see them--there’s no outcry, no boots thumping after them on the pavement. They manage one block in what feels like seconds, but after they cross the street, John hears the grinding of engines behind them. He can see the helicopter idling on the pad at the end of the street, now just two blocks away.

“We’ve got company coming,” John says out of the corner of his mouth, and he hears Molly’s sharp intake of breath. “Let’s pick up the pace.”

After a few moments of fast walking, it seems natural to break into a jog. John hears the engine noises growing closer, and sneaks a peek behind them. Three jeeps are following them, a few blocks back but moving closer. It’s an attack formation, two abreast and one behind. All are loaded with men in uniform, holding guns. 

He looks again, and the men are taking aim.

“Go!” he shouts, and they break into a full run. A bullet zips past them, and then another, and they run even faster, clearing the end of the last block and leaping over the low brick retaining wall. 

Ahead of them, the helicopter blades are starting to rotate, and a man in green battle fatigues appears in the open doorway, his machine gun thrown over one shoulder. He beckons to them, yelling, “Come, on, jump!” and John clears the last few meters and  _ leaps, _ landing hard on the floor of the bay. The man pulls Molly in behind them, slams the door, and motions them to two seats at the back. The helicopter lifts off immediately, but it takes John a minute to stagger to his feet and pull himself into the chair.

There are earphones on the armrests, and John quickly slaps his over his ears and speaks into the mic.

“Any damage, pilot?” he asks, breathing hard. Molly lands hard in her seat and starts to fasten the seatbelts. John nods toward her headphones and she puts them on.

“No, sir. That wasn’t the type of send off we were expecting, to be honest, but they didn’t hit us. Pretty sure you were the targets. Do you need medical attention?”

John glances at Molly, who shakes her head. “No, thanks. Some Gatorade and a Valium, and we’ll be good as new.”

The pilot chuckles in his ear, and the other man hands them each a bottle of lukewarm water. It tastes like heaven.

“There’s obviously going to be a change of plans, Pilot.”

“Lieutenant Jones, sir. No worries, just give me the coordinates.”

“Just need a minute, Jones.”

“Yes, sir.”

John leans back and pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket. He stares at it for a long minute, until finally Molly nudges him with her elbow. “You OK?” she mouths, and John nods and looks back to the screen. It seems so final, somehow, but there’s nothing for it. He brings up the message screen and types in a text.

_ Vatican cameos. _

There’s an immediate response:  _ Stay where you are. -MH _

_ Where I am is in the air with people shooting at us. I think relocation is a priority. _

There’s a long pause.

_ I see. _ _ That is unfortunate. -MH _

_ Tell me about it. _

_ Very well, come to me. Coordinates to follow. -MH  _

_ Don’t tell anyone, Mycroft. There’s a leak, and it has to be on your team. _

Another long pause.

_ Obviously. -MH _

John thinks of Mycroft flushing with embarrassment, and despite himself, he grins. Got him, Sherlock, he thinks, and then hopes, with everything in him, that he’ll get to tell Sherlock the story someday.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. You've all been so kind.


	14. 1:00PM to 2:00PM

Sherlock wakes up.

It’s a slow process at first. There’s sun pouring in through a high window, burning through his eyelids, and that is not acceptable. It’s an easy decision to keep his eyes closed for now. There’s a steady burning behind his forehead, and he can feel his pulse pounding at his temples. He shifts on the--mattress? Camp bed?--and realizes his head isn’t the only thing that hurts. He palpates his own abdomen, feels around the tender parts on each side. He can’t help but grimace; the ribs are probably bruised, if not cracked. He can feel where the punch landed on his middle, right under his xiphoid, and--

Punch. Several punches. Moran. His eyes fly open, and he looks around frantically, but he is alone. It takes a moment for him to get his breathing under control.

He’s lying on a bed, basically a concrete slab with a firm mattress on it, set against the wall in the corner of a square room. An oblong window close to the high ceiling is the source of the still-too-bright sun. The walls are aggressively plain, and the floor is that institutional tile one often sees in environments that require frequent mopping. He holds his breath and listens carefully, but he hears nothing besides the low level, completely unhelpful hum of fluorescent lights.

There’s a small table next to him that holds a tidy pile of green scrubs and a folded white towel topped with two bottles of water. The sight of the scrubs triggers a quick burst of panic, but he looks down to find he’s still dressed. A quick image of Moran’s leer causes a wave of nausea to sweep through him, and he resolutely pushes the thought away. 

He needs to focus. Is he in hospital? Prison? 

It never hurts to check the obvious, he thinks. He rolls to his side and pushes himself up to sitting, swallowing a curse and ignoring the tears of pain that tickle at the corners of his eyes. It takes another few seconds for him to get up on his feet, and one or two more to catch his breath. Christ, but his body hurts.

The door is locked. He mutters another curse, though he knew it was really too much to hope for that kind of mistake. He’s not sure what he would have done even if the door had been open.

He looks up through the window and does some quick calculations in his head. Based on the angle of the sun, it’s still early afternoon. They couldn’t have gotten very far away from the base, then; he must not have been unconscious for long. His mouth feels tacky, though, and as he’s standing there, his stomach rumbles. He’s hungry. The sandwich at the base seems a long time ago. He didn’t even get the cup of tea John had promised him.

Sherlock looks over at the bottles of water, and tries to imagine what John would tell him about taking sustenance from the enemy. The thought brings a faint smile to his face.

He shuffles back to his bed and sinks down onto the thin mattress with a loud exhale. God, John is probably panicking right now. He can almost see it, John running around the base, cunning and dashing in turn. He’s certain that he and Molly and that terrifying older lady with the excellent tea have been rescued by now; he refuses to consider any other option. 

He hopes (oh, how he hopes) that John was smart enough to send the code. After all, they were already running out of time. Mycroft will know how to access the hard copy of the formula; they’ll get the antidote into production, and the threat will be neutralized. He knows his brother--Sherlock’s rescue will be a low priority, but that’s all right. That’s how it should be. 

He closes his eyes and fights off the burst of loneliness that sweeps through him. 

After a couple of minutes, he hears a few sharp footsteps in the hallway, and the scraping of a key in the lock. The door opens, and a slim, elegantly coiffed woman in an expensive black suit and stiletto heels walks in, efficient and businesslike. Sherlock starts to rise, but she holds up a hand without looking his direction. An orderly behind her pushes a metal cart into the room and leaves, closing the door behind him. The woman sets a black leather attache case on the cart and centers it with a precise, deliberate motion. If she opened it, Sherlock wouldn’t be able to see what’s in the case, and he thinks, with a sharp pulse of dread, that that is probably intentional.

She finally raises her head and looks him up and down with a quick flick of her eyes. She lets him see her appreciation. She’s beautiful, he supposes, if a bit forbidding. Her lips are painted blood red, curved to a smirk that stops just shy of a sneer. Thick black hair is swept up into a tight bun, and the austerity of the look highlights the angles of her cheekbones and the curve of her slender, pale neck. Her eyes, blue with thick, long lashes, are flashing bright and amused. Sherlock watches as the silence between them stretches on. His pulse, which had started to race at the sound of her footsteps, steadies and slows. It’s obvious that her appearance is all part of a deliberate act. He is supposed to want, and to fear. She’s there to play with him, but after a lifetime with his brother, that is something he knows how to handle.

He keeps his face neutral, and sits, and waits, letting the quiet settle in. After a long minute, her smile fades, just a bit, and Sherlock knows he’s gained the first point.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she says at last. “Formerly of London. Graduate biochemist, still spoken of with reverence in the halls of King’s College. Current resident of 4 Clearwater Lane, Salisbury. You rent a small first floor flat, notable for its proximity to absolutely nothing of interest. Your neighbors never see you coming or going. Either that, or you’ve found a more attractive place to rest your head in your off hours. Do tell me if this is so.” This last is finished with a slight tone of question and a salacious grin.

Sherlock remains impassive. He’s never home because he’s always at work, but let her wonder.

The woman scans his face and frowns, but continues. “Many awards and fellowships, invitations to speak at leading scientific conferences around the world. Numerous publications to your name, covering a wide variation of obscure and no doubt fascinating topics. Blah blah blah, you’re a genius.”

She studies her nails, crimson ovals atop long ivory fingers, and continues in a bored voice. “Family: both parents living, retired, leading unremarkable retired lives in a lovely country home in Kent. Your father plays golf. Your mother plays bridge and is, perhaps, a bit too fond of sherry. One brother, one very fascinating brother, who apparently holds a minor position in the British government for which he travels extensively and is extremely well paid. As to you personally, no known friends or associates. No reports of romantic or sexual activities in any quarter.” She gives him another look of appraisal. “What a shame.”

Sherlock smirks. “You should consider that your intel might be flawed.” He matches her bored tone. “In any case, I fear you have me at a disadvantage. What is your name, if I may ask?”

“Well.” She licks her lips. “What would you like it to be?”

Sherlock sighs. “Miss Liberty.”

She puts on a pout. “You’d leave so soon? But we’ve only just met.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing personal, I assure you. At least, not yet.” 

“Just somewhere else you need to be, I suppose.”

He crosses his arms. “But you knew that.”

“Hmm.” She leans against the cart. He’s not sure what her expression means, but she seems thoughtful. “You know, you’re not what I expected.”

“No?” Sherlock can’t help but flash to the memory of John’s face, surprised and pleased after Sherlock’s first target practice. “I seem to be hearing that a lot lately.”

“Really? That’s good. I’d hate to think I was the only one with faulty intel.” She cocks her head and bites at her lip. “It’s interesting, though. I do know a lot about you. Well, you heard.”

“That rot before?” He shrugs. “You’ve found my entry on Wikipedia. Someone at the university started a page for me. Not sure who keeps it up.”

“Too many fans to keep track of, there in your top secret government lab. What a terrible problem to have.” The smirk makes a reappearance, and Sherlock is not happy to see it. “It mustn’t be someone too close to you. They’re missing all the important stuff. It’s disappointing.”

“I really couldn’t care less.”

“I didn't see anything about Sebastian Wilkes on that page, for example,” she continues, watching his face closely.

Sherlock draws in a sharp gasp; he can’t help it. She grins, and he knows she’s taking pleasure in his discomfort.

“I’m surprised your brother hasn’t dealt with him more harshly,” she muses. “He did a real number on you.”

He swallows. “I’ve done all right for myself,” he manages to say. “He’s better forgotten.”

“Do you really think so?” She purses her lips. “My sponsor wouldn’t have left him alive,” she says. “He’d take him out now for you, you know, as a gesture of friendship. You only have to say the word.”

Sherlock’s pulse has picked up again. He wasn’t prepared for this line of attack. Even Mycroft would have left Sebastian out of it. He needs to change the subject, and quickly. “Your sponsor. I’m assuming he’s my host. Who is he?”

The woman arches an articulate eyebrow. “A man of means, with a pronounced interest in justice,” she says precisely. 

“Justice,” Sherlock repeats.

“Yes. Of course, justice is relative, isn’t it? In any conflict, each side has a story. Too often, it’s the stronger side that wins, solely due to their might. My sponsor evaluates the situation, and helps to elevate the weaker side. Fair is fair, after all.”

“Ah, I see,” Sherlock said slowly, nodding. “He's an arms dealer who specializes in supplying terrorists in domestic conflicts. Do I have that right?”

She lifts one elegant shoulder in a shrug. “I suppose that’s another way to put it. Neither of us put too much stock in definitions. Terrorist, or freedom fighter. Honored guest, or prisoner.” She stands and draws the case toward her. “Persuasion, or coercion.”

Sherlock goes pale. She pauses and looks him in the eye. “You’ll give me the formula.”

Sherlock squeezes his fists so tightly, he feels his nails begin to bite into his palms. “I won’t.”

She opens the case with elaborate precision, and lovingly pulls out a black lacquer box. “Yes, you will, and you’ll thank me for it.” Her smile is open and real. She likes doing this, Sherlock realizes, and his heart pounds even harder.

“And--you’re planning to accomplish this alone. Just the two of us, and your little box.”

“For starters,” she says. “I’ll call for help if I need it.” She opens the box, and pulls out what he recognizes as a Taser, though he’s never seen one inlaid with mother of pearl and Swarovski crystals. He’s not felt the effects of a Taser himself, but the guards at Porton Down have them, and he’s aware of what they can do. 

“Now, Dr. Holmes. Let’s review. I have a lot of equipment, a vivid imagination, and orders to bring back that antidote, regardless of the cost to you. I’m very good at reading people; I can certainly can figure out what will break you.” Her smile is the smile of a snake that has just cornered a mouse. Against Sherlock’s will, his hands begin to shake. “To answer your question, you can call me Irene.” She lifts the Taser. “Shall we?”

\---


	15. 2:00PM to 3:00PM

John looks out at the desolate landscape. “Where the hell are we, Lieutenant? Looks like Mars.”

“Oklahoma, sir,” Jones says with a chuckle. “You wouldn’t be the first to make the mistake, though.”

“It’s so...flat. And  _ red." _ John leans back and glances over at Molly, who is absorbed by the view out her own window. “Is it all like this?”

“No, sir. It’s green and hilly in the northeast corner, up by Tulsa and all that, where the forests start up. Unfortunately, these coordinates don’t take us that way.” The helicopter banks left. That would be north, John thinks. He’s doing his best to keep track.

Another few minutes, and John sees a group of low buildings up ahead. He nudges Molly and indicates that she should look out his window, and then nods toward the laptop at her feet. “That our target?” he says to Jones, who looks out the window and frowns.

Molly’s eyes widen, and she nods and opens the computer.

“Yes, sir, that’s where the coordinates take us.” Jones covers his mouthpiece and chats briefly with his co-pilot, who shakes his head and shrugs. “We don’t think that’s military, sir, at least not U.S. military. Neither one of us have ever heard of a base around here.”

Molly leans her laptop over just enough for John to see it. “Looks like it’s--” He looks up at Molly in surprise. “Really?”

Molly just shrugs, a faint smile playing at her lips. 

“What, sir?”

John clears his throat. “Looks like it’s an old Wal-Mart distribution center, Lieutenant Jones.” He looks back out the window and smiles. “Surrounded by barbed wire fencing and with a helicopter landing pad on the roof.”

\---

John and Molly shake hands with the helicopter crew and nod at the two armed guards, and then turn to find another beautiful woman in a black suit and heels gesturing to an elevator at the edge of the landing pad. The three of them step in, and the doors slide closed. John notices there are no buttons on the control panel; instead, the woman places the pad of her index finger on a flat black glass panel where the buttons would be. The panel flares briefly green, and the elevator shimmies into motion and starts to descend. Fingerprint recognition, John thinks, grudgingly impressed, and shares a glance with Molly, who seems to agree: it’s reassuring to find reasonable security in place. The woman pulls out her mobile and starts texting, apparently ignoring them.

“I’m guessing you’re not a Wal-Mart greeter,” John says into the silence. The woman smirks. “What is this place?”

“Officially, it’s deserted. Wal-Mart merged this operation with one of their facilities in Arizona four years ago.”

“Right.”John lifts an eyebrow. “And unofficially?”

She drags her eyes away from her phone and up to his face. “Home Office away from home,” she quips, as the elevator stops and the doors slide open. They step out into a large, dark room with a wall of bright video screens, blinking maps of the U.S and U.K. dominating the center of the display. Several people sit at computer terminals and look up at the screens, frowning and typing in turn. John studies the people at their desks--all young, serious-looking tech types--but Molly stares at the large screen for a moment, and scowls.

“That’s CTU tech,” she says shortly, “but those aren’t CTU people.” She rounds on their escort. “Who gave you the authority? Who’s in charge here?”

The woman blinks. “We are linked in with permission,” she says, and then casually indicates her attire. “I believe you know who gave the order.”

“And he’s expecting us,” John says, placing a gentle hand on Molly’s arm.

“Actually, Dr. Watson, he’s expecting  _ you. _ Miss Hooper can wait in the secure briefing room. This way.” She leads them to the back of the control room. Molly is still grumbling under her breath, but John is looking around at the rather impressive set up. This isn’t a temporary operation; the furnishings and equipment are high-end and permanent. This base, whatever it is, operates year-round. There’s no American signalment here either, just like at the Red Rock base. Anyone getting past security by accident wouldn’t be able to tell what this was.

He thinks of the fence and the guards and the glowing panel in the elevator and wonders who would be stupid enough to try.

The woman directs Molly to a room down a short hallway before opening a door and motioning John into a dark office at the other end. The walls are painted a dark grey, and the room is eerily lit by slats of light coming through from overhead. Mycroft sits behind a mostly empty, overlarge desk, staring into a laptop and rubbing his forehead. He’s wearing the same suit as he was in the video link, and John realizes he’s been here all along, dressed to the nines in the middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma.

He grins at the thought of it. Oh, if only Sherlock were here.

The door closes behind him, and Mycroft looks up. “You dress well for Wal-Mart management,” John says blandly. “Get that suit with your employee discount, did you?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. “You pulled the trigger. The code word. Did you mean to?”

John straightens and pulls his shoulders back. “I did what Sherlock told me to do.”

Mycroft leans back in his chair. “Hmm. You’re very loyal. I should have expected that, I suppose, given your history.” He inspects his nails. “What else did Sherlock tell you?”

John frowns. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“No.” Mycroft sighs. “I imagine not.”

“We don’t have a lot of time--” John starts.

“No, you’re right, We don’t.” Mycroft raises his gaze to John’s face, his eyes cold and his face set. “You’ve done a truly abysmal job of protecting my brother. Doctor Watson. I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”

John can’t help the flash of guilt that hits him, but he looks Mycroft back directly in the eye and does his best to remain impassive. “I  _ am _ good, Mr. Holmes. In fact, I’m so good, I’m going to get him back.”

Mycroft scoffs. “Are you,” he says flatly.

“Yes,” John answers with absolute certainty. He nods at Mycroft’s laptop. “Any chance you could be arsed to help?”

“I’m afraid my resources are going to be devoted elsewhere,” Mycroft says with an exaggerated shrug as he turns back to his computer. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry, and as it happens, so do you. I’m going to send you to collect the paper copy of the formula, and then we’ll meet in Atlanta. That should--”

“Nope.”

Mycroft cocks his head, and his expression is ice. “Excuse me?”

John clears his throat. “No. I told you. Sherlock.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You feel rescuing my little brother is more important than fending off a major terrorist attack? My, my. What happened out there in the desert, Doctor Watson?”

John refuses to rise to the bait. “I’m a freelancer, remember? My brief was Sherlock.  _ Is _ Sherlock.”

Mycroft shakes his head and gestures at his laptop. “This is more important.”

“Maybe you’re right, but I think you need him. No one can handle all this as well as he can.”

“Yes, well, he’s gone. isn’t he? And now I’m giving you an order.”

John draws in a deep breath. “Mr. Holmes, with all due respect,  _ fuck _ your order.” 

Mycroft’s eyes widen. “Do you know who I am? Whom I  _ answer _ to?”

John bites off a humorless laugh. “Pretty sure I could guess, but I can’t possibly tell you how little I care right now.”

“You should.”

“I really don’t.”

Mycroft stares at him for several long moments. “Fine. Run along then,” he says at last. “Tilt at your windmills, but stay out of the way.  I have real work to do.”

It’s John’s turn to stare. “I don’t understand you,” he says quietly. “He's your  _ brother." _

“He’s  _ one person," _ Mycroft snaps.

“He’s the  _ one person _ who could save the rest of us,” John shoots back. “How can you just let him go?”

Mycroft slaps one hand down on the desk, and it echoes in the corners of the room. “It’s my job,” he says, with a hint of vehemence.

John stares at him. “Your job,” he answers numbly. “It’s your job.” He starts to laugh with disbelief. “You’re actually telling me that…”

“I’m telling you that I can’t let sentiment play a part in this decision. I  _ can’t." _ Mycroft points through the door in the direction of the control room. “Did you see those maps? Millions of people, and all of them are my responsibility. They are all that matters. They  _ have to be. _ That’s why we had the code in the first place. My brother knew that.” His voice breaks on the last two words, and he sags, looking suddenly exhausted. “I hoped this day would never come, but we both knew it could,” he says quietly. “There are millions of lives at risk, and he’s only one man, John. We only have so much time. I have--I have to let him go.”

John takes a step closer. “I don’t,” he says, gently but with certainty. “He’s only one man, but we need him, Mycroft. Help me.” Mycroft lifts his head, and John takes in the redness of his eyes, the defeat in his expression. He searches John’s face, and John lets him look. “It will be much quicker with your help, you know that. Let Molly use the full database and have access to the CTU satellites. We won’t ask for anything else.”

Mycroft stares for a moment longer, and then, finally, nods. “I’ll send her the access codes. You can work in the briefing room, if you like. If you come up with anything, let me know. I can send you out the same way you came in. That helicopter crew is fully cleared, and I’ll keep them on stand-by.”

John hesitates, but finally reaches out and squeezes his shoulder once, in thanks.

“Keep me posted,” Mycroft finishes softly, and John nods once more and leaves.

\---

John slips down the hall to the briefing room. Molly looks over the top of her laptop at him with wide eyes. “I’ve got full access,” she breathes. “All the CTU resources, even the top secret stuff. Do you still have a soul, or did you have to trade it?”

“We don’t have much time,” John answers, moving swiftly to her side. “The tracker in Sherlock’s shoe. How close do you need to be to find it?”

She blinks. “Jesus, John, is that what you’re counting on? Whoever’s got him probably destroyed his shoes already.”

“You said they never take the shoes.”

“Well, shit, I didn’t think you’d actually be  _ captured. _ I was trying to be encouraging.”

John rolls his eyes. “Molly. Range.”

She waves her hands. “Five kilometers, I guess, if the weather’s good.”

“Fine. I’ll just have to get us that close. You do have the frequency?”

Molly lifts an eyebrow.

“Right,” John says, swallowing a grin. “Sorry.”

She shrugs. “I’ll start scanning local communications in a two hundred mile radius around Red Rock. Maybe I can pick up a clue. I might even be able to hack into that base’s short range system with the CTU satellites.”

John looks up quickly. “That would be great. Do you think it will work?”

She shakes her head. “Not really, no. But it’s something to do while I’m coming up with a better idea.”

“All right, fine. Can you give me a shadow system on that computer?” John asks, pointing to a setup in the corner. Molly just nods, and after a few seconds, the system comes to life.

“I’ll need a detailed map of the area,” John says with determination. “We’ll going to find him, Molly. We have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, that is a gratuitous shout out to my hometown, Tulsa, Oklahoma, neatly nestled on the western edge of the eastern deciduous forest.)


	16. 3:00PM to 4:00PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the addition of my favorite tag: Creepy Moriarty. Regarding the new tags, please see the notes at the end of this chapter.

Sherlock carefully slides the brick into its place and turns to pick up the next one. The wall reaches almost to his chest. He’s taking his time, but it’s important to stop and check that each brick is balanced and even, set against its neighbor just so. The bricks are heavy, made from his own special mixture of clay and baked under very close observation. It’s crucial, this attention to detail, because this barrier needs to be especially strong. One tower is already in place, tall and finished with a steel roof, but it’s apparent this structure needs all the reinforcement he has time to create. After this wall, he’s considering a moat.

He frowns down at the mortar, adds a bit of silica fume to strengthen it. It’s an easy enough process in his head.

From a distance, he hears a door creak open, the rattle of a cart, and the click of heels on tile drawing closer. He wants to ignore the sound, but knows that won't be possible for long; he’ll just have to do his best to come back as quickly as he can. He backs away from the wall, brushing his hands and, grumbling to himself, steps through the doorway to the stone chamber. With some effort, he pushes the large steel door into place. The wheel that locks the door of this room--well, vault, really--resembles a ship’s wheel, a whimsical throw back to the pirate’s ship that was his first memory structure. It always makes him smile.

“Sherlock,” comes a woman’s crooning voice, echoing off the stone walls of the lamp-lit hallway. He sighs, and, drawing a deep breath, uses both hands to spin the wheel. He hears the tumblers slide into place with a satisfying click, and after confirming one last time that all is secure, he opens his eyes.

Irene is leaning over him, far too close for his comfort. As he blinks his eyes into focus, she brushes a curl back off his forehead with one slim finger. “There you are,” she coos, “You were far away just then. Let me guess: thinking about work? The formula?”

He starts to sit up and she stands up straight, still closer than he would like. “Not as such,” he answers, thinking instead about the bricks, the multiple walls, the thick steel door that protects the antidote from his own memory.

“Hmm. That’s unusual, if it’s true,” she says skeptically. “You have to know, most people dwell on their secrets in this kind of situation. They don’t want to give them up, but their subconscious knows it’s also what gives them value. It’s a tough equation, figuring out exactly when to give in.”

Sherlock blinks. “Are you supposed to tell me this kind of thing? Isn’t this--oh, what’s the phrase--showing me how the sausage gets made?”

She chuckles. “I’m not usually so open, it’s true, but I’m betting that knowing exactly what I’m about will actually make it worse for you.”

“Ah. Well,” Sherlock says, as he stands and stretches. He’s still sore from his encounter with Moran, and while he knows Irene held back at the last second, he’s got a headache from his run in with the Taser. He bites his lip to keep from showing his discomfort--there’s no point in giving her a head start in this race. “I do know what you’re doing,” he says, as he rolls his shoulders. “You’re wasting time. I didn’t give you anything before, and I’m even less inclined to do so now.”

She snorts. “You know, you’re not in the least what we expected. Any of us. We’re having to improvise.”

“My apologies. I’m new at being kidnapped.”

“Really? You seem like such a natural.” She shakes her head. “He’s not happy.”

“Moran? Fuck him.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, thank you.” She points him toward a chair, and after a moment’s consideration, he sits. The chair is harder than it looks and he can’t help a wince this time. He sees her absorb the look, and her eyes sparkle. Damn it.

“Not Moran?” he asks, hoping to distract her from whatever ideas are forming in her head. “Your sponsor, then.”

She nods. “Your host. Not a man you usually want to piss off, but then, you haven’t even met him and you can’t seem to help yourself.” She grins unexpectedly. “You know, we’re significantly behind schedule, but I find I don’t care. This is fun.”

Sherlock gives her a smirk. “It’s really not.”

“It is for me,” she says with a wink.

Sherlock draws in breath to answer, but is forestalled by the vibration of Irene’s phone, which rattles against the metal of the cart. She picks it up and reads the text, and her playful expression fades.

“Oh, dear. Bad news?” Sherlock asks with exaggerated politeness.

She looks up at him, and her eyes seem vaguely troubled. The phone vibrates again, and this time the message triggers an outright frown. “Lunch time,” she says slowly, and looks down at her phone again. “I guess I’ll be going.”

“I’m really not hungry,” Sherlock says, watching her closely.

“No, no, I imagine not,” she says absently, and walks over to the door. She knocks twice and there’s only a brief pause before the door opens, and the orderly from before steps inside to collect the cart.

She pauses and looks back at Sherlock over her shoulder. “Rest up,” she says quietly. ”Someone will be along shortly.”

Sherlock stares at the door for several seconds after it slams behind her, but then with a shrug, staggers up to his feet and walks back to the bed. He’ll take any time he can find to reinforce those walls.

\---

He’s managed another layer of brickwork and is contemplating the idea of barbed wire for around the top when he hears the door to his holding room open again. There are no heels this time, though, only the squeaks of rubber soled shoes. Curious, he spins the locks and comes back to the cell.

A small man is standing just inside the doorway, holding a lunch tray. “Dr. Holmes?” he asks shyly, in a soft Irish-tinged voice. “Brought you some lunch.”

Sherlock pushes himself up to sitting and leans back against the wall. He’s still hungry, and lunch is tempting, but an image of John’s face creased with disappointment flashes through Sherlock’s mind. He shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

The man shuffles forward, one step and then another. “You don’t have to eat it, but I’ll get in trouble for not giving it to you. I’ll just set it down, then, yeah?”

Sherlock briefly considers snapping at the man and trying to frighten him away, but something about him seems tentative, almost sad. Sherlock wonders if he understands that he’s working in a prison. He must, but still, there’s something fragile there. “Fine.” He shoves the scrubs off the small table. “There.”

“Thanks.” The man sets the tray down carefully, and stoops to pick up the scrubs and the unopened bottles of water that are rolling across the floor. He stacks everything neatly on the floor next to the bed and nods once with satisfaction before going to lean against the wall next to the door. He watches Sherlock with bright, dark eyes that never seem to blink, and Sherlock finds it a bit unnerving.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks at last, and while his tone is short and frankly rude, the man smiles widely and bobs his head.

“You’re him,” he says, still nodding. “The one everyone is talking about. They say you’re some kind of genius.”

There really is something off about the man, but he seems willing to talk, and Sherlock never turns down a good source of data. “Do they?” Sherlock asks, trying to sound as bored as possible. “Should I care?”

The man shrugs, still smiling. “They want something from you.”

Sherlock watches him closely. “Yes. I know they do.”

“But you don’t want to give it to them.”

“No. I don’t.”

“They won’t like that.” The man tilts his head. “Nice to have someone to chat with over lunch, isn’t it?”

“I’m not going to eat.”

“Oh, you should.” The man nods at the tray. “You should at least try the tea. I made it myself.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “Americans make shit tea, you know. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Sherlock can’t help but laugh. “Oh, I’ve noticed.”

The man nods again at the tray. “English breakfast.” The smile widens. “My mum sent it from Ireland.”

Sherlock sighs and tries to resist the thought, but he’s got a bit of a caffeine deprivation headache on top of all his other pains, and a cup of tea does sounds good.

The man nods yet again. “Try it. Here.” He crosses the room and picks up the cup and saucer. “I put a bit of sugar in. You’ll like it.”

Sherlock takes the cup and looks down at the tea. It smells heavenly, and the warmth in his hand is comforting, and it’s almost an automatic gesture to raise it to his lips and take a sip. It really is good. He’s had some surprisingly excellent tea from unexpected sources on this trip.

The man’s smile disappears, and he stands up straighter. “You should give them what they want, you know. They’re quite determined,” he says, his delivery suddenly sharp and quick.

Sherlock frowns at the change in the man’s demeanor. “So am I.”

The man’s gaze grows sharper, becomes piercing somehow. “They just want to change things. You’re a scientist. You know growth comes from change.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “They want to kill people. A lot of people. That’s not change, that’s murder. People will die.”

The man shrugs. “That’s what people do.”

Sherlock is taken aback by the man’s cold, matter of fact manner, but he tries not to let it show. He sets the cup down. “I think I’d like to be alone now. Do you mind?”

The man ignores the question. “If these people don’t win, it will just be someone else that comes to power. You know that, right? It’s inevitable. At least if you help now, you’re on the inside. They need you. They’ll take care of you. You’ll be safe.”

“At the cost of how many lives? That’s a disturbing way to think.” The man shrugs, and Sherlock finally realizes his mistake.

“You’re not just an orderly. What’s your name?”

The man’s lips curve slowly into more of a rictus than a smile. “Took you long enough.” His diffidence is entirely gone now, and he saunters across the room to start poking through the contents of the lunch tray. “They will get it out of you, you know,” he says with certainty. “Well, we will. We know how to do this. Whether you like it or not, it will start soon.”

Sherlock feels his heart rate accelerate, but he’s proud that his voice comes out firm. “I won’t give you the formula.”

“Yes, you will,” the man answers in a sing-song. “Ah, they gave you a brownie.” He holds it up. “You don’t mind, do you? I don’t think you’ll care much in an hour or so, anyway.”

Sherlock draws in a shaky breath to answer, but is interrupted by a loud chime from the man’s mobile. The man opens his eyes wide in mock surprise.

“Oops, I’d best be off. Busy day around here, you know.” He strides to the door and knocks three times, and it opens immediately. “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.” He winks, stuffs half of the brownie into his mouth, and slips quickly and smoothly out the door.

Sherlock stares after him, as though he can see the molecules vibrating in his wake. The room is silent, oppressively so, and Sherlock can hear his own harsh, uneven breathing. That hadn’t been two men playing a game, though he’d thought so at first; that was a hunter toying with his prey. Only a fool would be unafraid, and Sherlock, tragically in this instance, is not a fool.

Heels click in the hallway, and his eyes snap to the doorknob. It turns, and Irene walks in, with something less than her usual flair. “Are you all right?” she asks, concern coloring her voice as she looks him over.

He slips his still-quivering hands under his thighs and gives her a large, false smile. “Oh, I’m just fine. Really. Tell me, do you screen the lay staff for mental illness?”

She glances at the door, a pronounced frown on her face. “You’d be surprised,” she says wryly, and then looks over at his tray. “Did you eat anything?”

He shakes his head firmly. “Of course not.”

“Good,” she says, surprising him, and he narrows his eyes. Something’s changed, he thinks, as he watches her check the Cartier timepiece on her slim wrist. She’s lost the enthusiasm, the playfulness she demonstrated before. She looks--tired, he realizes, and he wonders what that means.

And then she lifts her eyes to meet his gaze, and he feels his blood run cold. She’s looking at him now with _regret._

“I’m afraid we’re out of time, Sherlock,” she says, and her voice is even and quiet. “I’ve got my orders. Let’s get back to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Sherlock is going to have a rough offscreen hour now (Irene is very good at what she does). I promise not to show you any of the violence, but he'll be coming off of it at the beginning of chapter 18, and I wanted to warn anyone who might prefer a warning. He'll be fine. He has to be, we're almost to the end of the third story arc.


	17. 4:00PM to 5:00PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please allow me to remind you of one very important characteristic of '24': the show's deep, almost joyful embrace of technical bullshit. Enjoy the breeze as we handwave ourselves closer to the conclusion of our third act.

John drains the last of his cup of tea. It’s his third of the past hour, and they’re working; he’s very awake, and he’s been able to focus. He considers getting another, but after taking note of the slight tremor in his hands, he decides it might be wise to wait. He’s got quite a challenge ahead; he’ll need to be in control.

It's been a productive hour. The room is quiet enough for John to hear the hum of the lights and the occasional shuffle of feet coming down the deeply carpeted hall on the other side of the door. There’s a lot of equipment around the room--printers, a copier, even an old-fashioned fax machine--all top of the line, and John can’t hear any of the electronic hum he associates with the average office. Molly, bless her, is almost silent, save for the rapid clacking of her keyboard and the occasional muttered curse. It's been a perfect place for the kind of thoughtful work they’ve had to do, and John is pleased with their progress. He just needs to run it all by Mycroft and get his buy-in.

He closes his eyes briefly and sends up a prayer that he’s figured this right. Sherlock’s life might be depending on it.

There’s a precise, perfectly syncopated knock. The door opens a few seconds later, and as if summoned, Mycroft appears. John smiles at him, and wonders if the lift of Mycroft’s eyebrow should be considered a reply in kind.

“Come on in, you’re just the man I want to see. Oh, hello,” John says, as Mycroft’s assistant slips in behind him. She smiles vacantly in John’s direction, but he doesn't miss her quick scan of the conference table as she takes position a single pace behind Mycroft. John shoots Molly a quick glance, who lowers her chin in subtle agreement. He swallows a grin and redirects his attention to Mycroft.

He takes a deep breath to steady his nerves. It’s time. “We think have a place to start. May I show you?”

“Please,” Mycroft says, and takes a seat at the conference table. Molly taps at her keyboard for a few seconds, and a map of the southwest United States fills the large screen on the wall.

“All right.” John takes one last moment to gather his thoughts, and points to Red Rock on the map. “We started by assuming whoever took your brother would want to go into hiding as quickly as possible.”

Mycroft frowns. “Why?”

John was expecting the question, but it’s still a hard thing to say. He turns around slowly to face him directly; it’s the least he can do. “Because of you, actually.”

Mycroft blinks. “Come again?”

John spreads his hands wide and keeps his voice level. “Think about it. Anyone with the wherewithal to get onto that base and pull this off is going know who you are, and they have to know you’ll be watching. It’s much safer for them to have Sherlock--” John swallows. “Locked up. They’re hiding him from _you._ I’m sorry, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s face has turned to stone. “I see your point. Go on.”

John turns back to the screen, giving Molly a quick look of concern. She glances at Mycroft, and then gives a tiny shrug. She can’t read him either, but it’s too late now. “We decided our best bet was to identify possible holding facilities within an appropriate radius. Satellite surveillance didn’t show any air traffic in the area after our helicopter took off, so Sherlock must have been taken from the base by car. That makes sense, since they wouldn’t have wanted me to notice--they probably just hid him in the boot or something--” he winces apologetically-- “and went out the front gates with the normal traffic. So we started with a locations within a hour’s worth of driving, but found nothing that would be appropriate, even with extensive renovation.”

“Nothing?” Mycroft’s voice is clipped, but John is pleased he’s still listening.

“Nothing. Now knowing this, and keeping in mind that their risk of discovery increases with every minute they’re on a public road, we decided they must have switched over to a helicopter fairly early on.”

“Not a plane?” Mycroft asks, in the same tone.

John shakes his head. “We’re guessing they’d want the flexibility of a chopper. Besides, in a helicopter, they can stay lower to the ground, evade air traffic control.”

“And we’re sure he left the base? It’s an intelligence base, they might have planned to keep him there. They do have holding cells.”

John shrugs. “We thought about that, but they fired on us, right? They risked drawing that attention. Honestly, we’ve considered that the ambush might have been intended on some level as a diversion for you. Again, they have to know who you are. I do think they were trying to kill us, but it had the extra benefit of drawing your attention away from what they were up to with Sherlock.” John wheels around to face him. “Speaking of, they _are_ getting attention, aren’t they?”

Mycroft smiles serenely. “I have teams are already on site, and several individuals have been taken into custody. Your point is well taken. By the way, we’ve made contact with Mrs. Hudson, and she said to tell you she’s well and to, quote, ‘stop mucking around and go kick some arse.’”

John grins. “How many did she get?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know what I mean. How many did she take out?”

“Oh.” Mycroft sniffs. “Two jeeps and one patrol cycle. Tires only, but it was a very effective trip wire. Our fault for going in unmarked, I suppose.”

“Ah.” John laughs. “Well, that’s nowhere close to her record. She must have pulled her punches. Don’t take it personally.”

“Quite. Once the dust settled, it was all very--enlightening. She’s very effective in the field, and rather protective of you.” Mycroft studies his hands, and John can almost feel the air warm between them. Mrs. Hudson often has that effect on people, he muses, even at a distance. He could swear he even sees Mycroft’s lips quirking at the corners. “I’m going to ask her to do some training for our elite squads, I think. Anyway, if you don’t mind, let’s get back to the topic at hand.”

“Very well.” John turns back to the screen, still grinning. The thought of Mrs. Hudson is acting like a tonic, reminding him of miracles wrought in even darker times. “We took an average military helicopter speed of two hundred miles per hour as a starting point, and built a matrix from there. We don’t know what kind of equipment they have, but they don’t seem to be hurting for resources, so it’s probably pretty damn fast. Here’s our range.”

Molly taps again, and a red circle appears, outlining an area with the Red Rock base at the center.

“We assumed they would steer clear of metropolitan areas. We also assumed that if they went to the trouble of grabbing your brother, they’d want to put him to work right away, so they’d need a water supply, some production space, and probably a loading dock. With all of this is mind, it was pretty easy to scan our target area for appropriate facilities.”

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow. “And?”

“We think he’s here.” A silver star appears in an empty area of the map, and the screen splits to show a satellite photo of a large, flat building. “It’s a retrofitted hospital just over the Colorado border outside Trinidad. Molly?”

Molly clears her throat. “As John said, it’s a former hospital, but it’s been repurposed as a private research facility. It’s got first rate security.” A couple of clicks, and the picture changes to show tall fences with barbed wire, a guard house, and a large satellite dish. “We checked with the city’s electrical utility, and they say the facility is known to have extensive solar power capability and several large back up generators. Fresh water is trucked in from aquifers near the Rocky Mountains, and satellite photographs of the parking lot suggest a reasonably sized workforce.”

Mycroft leans forward, intent on the screen. “Are you able to scan the interior?”

Molly shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. It’s shielded, which is probably intentional, and the plans we found are pretty old. They don’t match the structure as it looks today, so when they were planning the renovation, they either paid someone off, or just ignored permitting altogether.” She smiles ruefully. “We haven’t found the city administration to be very effective. There’s not much oversight out there.”

“Which makes it perfect for them,” John says with certainty. “It’s the obvious place.”

Mycroft stares at him, blue eyes icy, and John wonders what he sees. “Are you sure?”

John nods. “Absolutely.”

Mycroft stares for another long moment, but finally nods. “All right, I’ll send in a team. Will you be joining them, Dr. Watson?”

John looks down at the floor, lets a note of insecurity enter his voice. “I’m sure you have personnel who are better equipped to handle this sort of thing. I’ll monitor from here, if you don’t mind.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees rather than hears Mycroft’s intake of breath, and feels all the goodwill that has grown between them evaporate in an instant. He concentrates on staying still; this is the crucial moment. “Very well,” Mycroft says at last, the words deep frozen, as he turns to his assistant. “Emma, please run point for this. I want to be kept fully informed.“

Emma murmurs her assent, and steps out of the room. Mycroft turns back to face John.

“Excellent _analysis,_ Dr. Watson,” he says, and his voice is still ice. “I’ll send the dossiers on the team members to Miss Hooper, in case you can rouse yourself to care. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll do my best to keep you in the loop.”

 _He bought it,_ John thinks with astonishment, and a quick glance at Molly’s wide eyes shows she’s thinking the same thing. If he bought it, then Emma bought it, and the game is _on._

John stops him just as he starts to open the door. “One more moment, Mycroft, if you would.” He nods to Molly as Mycroft looks at him in icy surprise.

Molly presses a button on her laptop, and the room is filled with a low buzz.

“Audio blocking,” John says, as he swiftly checks to to see that the door is completely closed. He nods to Molly. “Go.”

“I realized right after you gave me access that I was being shadow traced.” She turns her laptop around to face him. “Someone had a keystroke tracker on me. It’s a sophisticated little program, and to tell you the truth, I’m kind of impressed. But considering that we already know we’ve been compromised…”

Mycroft stares at her. “Emma,” he says, and it sounds like a curse.

“Yes.” John steps forward. “I suspected your other assistant before. I assumed at the time that she was working alone, but I doubt she arranged this,” he says, nodding at Molly’s computer.

Molly nods in agreement. “You’ve got a closed system here. This was a local hack.”

Mycroft sits down hard on his chair. “A conspiracy. In my office.”

John looks at him curiously. “You don’t seem all that surprised.”

“Human failing never surprises me.” Mycroft covers his eyes. “We can’t expose it now, though, it will put the entire operation at risk.” He looks up at John with suspicion, and what looks like just the tiniest bit of respect. “You _bluffed_ me.”

John nods. “I did,” he says, and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

Mycroft must see it as he searches his face. ”May I assume you have something in mind?”

Mycroft’s scowl is so impressive, his disgust at his own gullibility so obvious, that John can’t help it anymore; he breaks out in a broad grin. “Of course I do.” He pulls an auto club tour book from his duffel. “I never travel without local maps. As soon as we realized we were compromised, I switched to paper.” He nods at the copy machine that sits in the corner. “You’ll want to have a technician fix the wireless on your copier, by the way. It’s the strangest thing, we couldn’t access the network. I suppose the network couldn’t access us either, more’s the pity. The enlargement feature works fine, though.”

He reaches below the table and brings out a stack of paper, which he quickly lays out across the conference table. Once arranged, they form a rough version of the same map that is displayed behind him on the large screen.

“We think it’s actually here,” John says, pointing to an empty space in northern Texas. “Just outside Amarillo. We came across it early in our research, but we’d figured out the trace by then, so we didn’t try to pull the schematics. Still, I think it’s our best bet. Molly?”

Molly looks up. “Is your phone encrypted, Mr. Holmes?” Mycroft nods and pulls it out of his pocket. “Put in your password and let me show you.”

Mycroft taps on the screen and hands the phone over. Molly types for a moment and hands it back.

He studies the picture on the screen. “It’s a former prison.” He looks up, and for a second, John sees raw fear in his eyes.

John nods. “Built by a private company and operated as a state facility for a while, but closed a couple of years ago due to budget cuts. It was originally set up to handle five hundred prisoners, but it’s empty now. Has everything we’re looking for, though.”

“Research facilities? Factory space?”

“We nosed around a bit in the public records,” John says, as he slides another sheet of paper across the table. “The notice for bid for this prison was posted publicly, and the specs include a hospital building and manufacturing space. It would have been easy enough to bring in a hood and set up a clean room after the prisoners were moved.”

“Prison labor is a valuable resource,” Molly adds dryly. “It isn’t all license plates. States can force prisoners to work, and it’s legal for them to lease their efforts to private businesses. It makes sense to give them a place to do it. They wouldn’t want to limit the type of production, so it’s probably a decent sized space. It could absolutely work for what they need.”

John takes a step forward. “He’s _there,_ Mycroft. Get me an encrypted tablet, and we’ll review the schematics it in the chopper on the way.”

Mycroft straightens from where he’s been bending over the map, and meets his eyes. “So you do want to go.”

 _Got him,_ John thinks, and doesn’t look away. “Of course I’m going. You can’t possibly think I’m going to trust anyone else with Sherlock’s life.”

Mycroft looks down at his phone and shakes his head. “You’re going in almost blind, Dr. Watson. It’s a big risk.”

“Nah,” John says, letting a note of teasing into his voice now. “It’s a sure thing. Just me and Molly in a helicopter with a few grenades and the element of surprise--no one will know we’re there until it’s too late.”

Mycroft, to John’s surprise, starts to chuckle. “You don’t even know if you’ve found the right place.”

“I’m right,” John says with assurance.

“He’s right,” Molly echoes.

They’re all silent for several long seconds. _Come on,_ John thinks. _We’re running out of time._

“Very well,” Mycroft says at last, and John feels a warm flash of relief sweep through his body. “I’ll tell Emma we’ve decided to send in two teams, one to secure the facility and the other to handle Sherlock’s extraction. I’ll--imply you are going under duress. Avoid her. We’ll get the helicopters ready. Get a few miles away, and you can redirect in the air.”

John sighs. “Thank you,” he says with relief, as he starts to gather the map papers.

“There is one condition, though,” Mycroft continues, as though John hasn’t spoken. John pauses and looks up, wary. “I want to send someone with you.”

Molly and John exchange a glance. “You’ll have to name the flight crew--” John starts, but Mycroft shakes his head.

“Jones and Addison, the team you came in with. That’s not enough.”

Molly clears her throat. “Mr. Holmes, your team is--”

“Compromised, I know.” Mycroft waves his hand in her direction. “I’m not stupid, Miss Hooper. I recognize the consequences of that fact better than you do. I’m not sending anyone from my team. I’m thinking of someone on Sherlock’s team.”

John regards him quizzically. “Sherlock’s team?”

Mycroft nods. “The one man he trusts above all: Gregory Lestrade.”

“Lestrade,” John repeats. He flips through Sherlock’s files in his head, places the name. “He was there when I picked Sherlock up at the lab.”

“The very one. I had him flown out here right after you and Sherlock left.”

John frowns. “Who is he to Sherlock?”

Mycroft shakes his head slowly. “It’s not my story to tell.”

“We don’t have time for drama right now...” John starts, but Mycroft interrupts.

“You’re right, we don’t. You’ll take him,” Mycroft says simply, and nods down at the tabletop. “Get your things together. You’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

John sniffs. He doesn’t like this. “Can Lestrade handle a gun?”

Mycroft smirks. “Well, he’s no prodigy, like my brother, but I think you’ll find him quite useful.”

John rubs his head. They really don’t have time for this, but Mycroft’s mind appears to be made up. “All right, fine,” he says wearily. “But I’m in charge. And if he gets killed, it’s not my fault.”

“Your conditions are met.” Mycroft gives a little bow, and starts to turn toward the door. “Good luck, Doctor.”

“Mycroft, wait,” John says impulsively, and then holds out his hand. “Thank you. For trusting me with this. With Sherlock.”

Mycroft looks down in surprise, and then slowly takes it. “No, I believe it is I who must thank you,” he says quietly. “You’ve surprised me. People don’t often do that.”

John squeezes his hand once and then lets it go. “I promise I’ll get him back, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“You know…” Mycroft says, and he’s smiling faintly. “I might owe you an apology for what I said before, when you first got here. You actually are good at this.”

John chuckles. “Well, after I bring back your brother, you can buy me a drink.”

“It’s a deal,” Mycroft says, and John could swear he sees a sparkle somewhere deep in his eyes. “I’ll even open my second-best scotch.”

The door closes behind him. John breathes one last sigh of relief, and gives Molly a cocky grin. “Saddle up, cowgirl,” he says with a wink. “We’re off to Texas.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jen (221bJen) for helping me maintain the emotional throughline here, and for reminding me that Mycroft never, ever peeks.


	18. 5:00PM to 6:00PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jen and I agreed that if this fic really was a TV show, this would be the Best Actor Emmy episode.
> 
> Sherlock has a rough time in this chapter, but it's not graphic. Feel free to ping me (on Twitter if you know me, or leave a comment) if you have questions before reading.

One brick falls, shattering as it hits the ground, and then another. 

“No,” Sherlock growls, as he looks around the room frantically for something,  _ anything _ he can use to reinforce the walls. The mortar is dried up in the bucket, and the bricks themselves suddenly seem too heavy to lift with his battered, twisted hands.

The floor starts to vibrate, a rumble of confusion and fear echoing through the stone walls.

“Sherlock…” The voice is smooth, almost teasing, and much too loud. “Haven’t you had enough yet?”

He gasps and fights to stay in the vault, but she’s doing something to his back now, something that hurts, and he knows he won’t be able to stay here much longer. He barely manages to slam the door closed and spin the wheel before blinking back to awareness in his cell.

He’s tied to the narrow bed, face down, stripped nearly naked and with his arms and legs outstretched. It’s not comfortable at all, which is surely by design. Irene had taken great pleasure at seeing him wrestled into submission by two large guards, and had spread a rubber sheet across the mattress before ordering him to be tied into place. It had only taken him a couple of minutes to realize that gripping the bed rail eased the pressure from the plastic binding his wrists; as a result, his fingers are cramped and tight, and he couldn’t let go now if he wanted to.

There’s a strong odor of sweat, mostly his, of course, mixed with a faint undertone of blood. No scent of charred flesh, though. She’s gleefully advised him that will come later.

He hasn’t given her the formula.

“Come on, darling,” she murmurs, and no wonder her voice seemed loud; she’s so close that her lips are brushing against his ear. “What are you waiting for? Answer me, now.”

He doesn’t answer. He won’t admit to what he's hoping for, even to himself.

She stands, shakes her head and clucks her tongue, a disappointed sound. “I know you’re tired. Hell, I’m tired. You could end this with just one word. Say yes, Sherlock, and I’ll untie you.”

He shakes his head. She sighs and turns back to the cart.

Whatever she’s doing doesn’t burn, but it stings, and it doesn’t make any sound, so he can’t tell where he’ll feel it next. It’s effective. She’s good, he admits to himself, but the quiet allows him to slip back into his palace, down to the stone corridors where he puts the things he needs to keep hidden. The vault is there, safe, the door still sealed. He stands and stares at it, considering. If he puts both his pride and his fear aside, objectively he knows he will eventually break. As it currently stands, the structure can’t survive this sort of determined attack.

A guardian. He needs protection, even if it’s only imaginary.

He takes a couple of steps back and with a wave of his hand creates an alcove across the hall. He conjures a suit of armor, made of steel, perhaps a little shorter in stature than one might expect. It fits into the alcove perfectly. In the right hand, the figure holds the expected sword, but in the other, the left, it holds a gun. In a touch of whimsy, on the figure’s hip, Sherlock adds a steel pocket that holds a very rugged mobile phone. The figure is made of hammered steel, showing some wear, with a deep dent over one shoulder, but the posture is proud. This is a protector’s suit, a working suit, and it has withstood all the challenges it has seen. Sherlock touches the arm almost reverently, and sighs.

The lights in the hallway dim and flicker, and Sherlock feels a new shock of pain down his back. She’s changed to something new. The discomfort is increasing, but Sherlock stares at the suit, focuses on each dent, every scrape, and pushes the sensations away. He sees, suddenly, the look on John’s face after he fired the gun the first time, the wonder and delight, and remembers that he, Sherlock, has it in him to surprise.

His pulse surges with renewed resolve. He will not give in.

He hears Irene’s dry chuckle bounce off the stone walls. She must see some change in his body, and there’s no way for her to know that it’s not a response to what she’s doing. He smirks at the thought. He could--he could take it further, he thinks, and lets each sensation, each pinch, every slash at her hands become a kiss across his shoulders, down his spine, even along the backs of his thighs. John’s lips on the back of his neck, John’s nibble over the curve of his ribcage, even John’s gentle slap on the curve of his arse. It occurs to Sherlock that if this continues to work, if the transference is successful, he could even become aroused, and blushes at the thought.

What would John think? Would he be shocked? Disgusted? Despite his own embarrassment, Sherlock sifts through the possibilities and finds the one he knows is right. John would be  _ pleased, _ pleased that he’s holding out, pleased that he’s finding a way through this. John would be happy with him. John would smile.

The thought of that approval warms Sherlock’s belly like milk with honey, makes his skin hum with new, raw energy, and in a moment of inspiration, Sherlock transmutes all of that heat to molten steel. It bubbles in a cauldron beside him, ready to be made into weapons, or buildings, or even armor of his own.  _ Just so, _ he thinks, and with all his strength, lifts and throws the liquid at the door of the vault. It splashes and immediately starts to harden. He watches it settle into the crevices and hinges, creating a seal along the crack where the door meets the floor, and finally seeping into the mechanism of the lock and hardening there. 

He will  _ not give in. _

He’s smiling, satisfied, when a sharp pain flashes through both of his legs, and he can’t help but draw in a shocked breath. “Why are you doing this?” Irene’s voice comes echoing down the hall, taking on a metallic quality as the sound waves bounce off the new metal. “It could all be over already, you could be nestled into a first class seat on a plane away from all of this.” He feels a pressure on his shoulder, and knows that in his cell, she is touching him. “It will only get worse, you know,” she continues. “He won’t let up. I won’t let up.”

He feels pressure on both shoulders now. She’s intentionally grinding into the sore places and after another few seconds he’s back in the cell with tears in his eyes. God, it hurts, and he knows there’s worse to come, but he takes a deep breath and thinks of dents in armor and resolves that if he has to die, he’ll do it without  _ giving in. _ The pressure comes again, and this time he pretends it’s John’s arm around his shoulder, comforting him through the pain. He hurts, and he’s tired, but John is here, and John is proud of him.

The pressure on his shoulders lifts. “Who’s John?” Irene asks curiously, and Sherlock realizes he’d said the name out loud. He hears her walking back toward her cart, and over his shoulder he can see her pick up a file and open it, frowning. “That little soldier fellow?”

She looks up at him with pity, and shakes her head slowly. “Sherlock, love. We aren’t new at this, you know.  We’ve hidden you where they’ll never think to look.”

Sherlock’s throat is as dry as it’s ever been, but he manages a scoff. 

Irene shrugs. “Believe it or not, but by the time they find you you’ll be gone--” She sweeps his body with an appraising glance. “One way or the other.”

Sherlock chuckles, and Irene’s scowl is worth the discomfort in his throat. “Well, whether you believe it or not,” he croaks, “that ‘little soldier’ will be the end of you.”

She leans back against the cart with a thoughtful look, but after a few seconds, her eyes begin to twinkle. “Oh, Sherlock. Do we have a bit of a crush?”

_ Oh god, _ Sherlock thinks, realizing his mistake, and is drawing in breath to say anything to distract her from this new line of thinking when the floor starts to vibrate. It lasts for a few seconds. Sherlock is reminded of his panic of before, in the mind palace, and quickly peeks below decks to see if something is happening down by the vault, but all is quiet in the stone hallway. When he looks back to Irene, confused, she’s frowning at the door.

The floor shakes again, and the walls a bit this time, and Sherlock thinks  _ that’s an explosion, _ and then  _ oh. OH. _

“What  _ is _ that?” Irene murmurs, and she’s starting to move toward the door when they both hear footsteps pounding down the hallway. She puts her ear to the door for a second, and then slowly pulls it open and steps out.

With the door ajar, Sherlock can actually hear the explosion this time. It’s closer than the others, and really quite loud. He laughs into the mattress.  _ John. _ That idiot. That bloody, brilliant idiot. He’s sent someone to rescue him. He really hadn’t dared to hope.

Irene runs back into the room, wide eyed and pale. “They found us,” she says breathlessly, staring at him.

“So it would appear,” Sherlock agrees.

She steps around into his line of sight, and he squints up at her. She really is pale, almost ghostly now, and looks between him and the door, biting her lip. Her face is full of fear and indecision, and she’s holding a gun.

Oh. _ Damn. _ It’s always something.

“Your orders are to kill me if anything happens,” he says calmly.

She nods, eyes bright. “Yes.”

“But you don’t want to,” he says, watching her flinch from the truth of it.

She shakes her head and swallows, tightening her grip on the gun.

“Did you drink the tea?” she asks.

He blinks at the non sequitur. “What?”

“The tea he made you with lunch. That--orderly. Did you drink it?”

He frowns. “Just a sip.”

She sighs. “Then you’re dead already,” she says, and pulling a switchblade from her pocket, walks over to the bed and slashes the ties holding his hands and feet to the bed frame.

He winces and shifts, slowly easing his way up to sitting. He looks down at his hands, opening and closing his stiff fingers, shaking them a little to restore the circulation. When he looks back up at her, she’s watching him almost wistfully.

She lifts the gun and fires. 

The shot burns through his shoulder, and as the smell of gunpowder mixes with the other scents in the room, he has the sense he’s choking. He can’t seem to focus, and his ears are ringing. He looks down at the wound in shock.

“Here,” she says, handing him a white towel. “Put pressure on that.”

In a haze, he takes the towel and follows her instructions. He knows he should be feeling pain, but strangely enough, he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel much of anything, really. His fingers are numb, but he feels the brush of the cotton on his skin and supposes it’s close enough.

She opens a bottle of water and sets it on the table next to the bed. “I have to go,” she says, and then, remarkably, crosses the room and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I  _ am _ sorry,” she whispers, running one long finger down his cheek. 

She steps back, takes one last look at him, and turns to leave. The door clangs shut behind her, and he knows without checking that it’s locked again. No matter. Someone will find him.

He leans back, hard, against the wall. It’s cold against his back, but he’s grateful for the support. 

He thinks of what she said, about the tea, and all at once, the implication hits him. That man, the Irishman, hadn’t been an orderly. Not at all. Sherlock had been a fool. He’d sat in a cell with the very man who’d ordered his abduction, who wants the world to burn and is willing to kill to make it happen, and allowed him to  _ steal his brownie. _ He closes his eyes and tries to brings the man’s face into view, but his ability to focus is fading, and his mind is growing grey.

He doesn’t even like brownies, he thinks vaguely, but maybe he should have put up more of a fight.

The towel feels wet. He looks down and is surprised to find that it’s almost completely red now. Blood, he thinks distantly, his blood, mixed with sweat and tears and everything else they could get from him.

But they didn’t get the formula. He smiles with satisfaction, but he’s beginning to shiver, and his hands look so white.

It occurs to him that Irene might have killed him after all.

“Sherlock? Sherlock?” He hears a man’s voice, but it’s coming from some distance. Sherlock can’t tell if he’s back in his mind palace now, or still in his cell. His vision has narrowed down to just the few feet around him. Probably mind palace, he thinks. They couldn’t have found him yet. It’s too soon. It’s only been a few seconds, or maybe an hour.

There’s a shock of pain through his shoulder and across his back, but it passes quickly. He’ll just lie down, he thinks, and then realizes his head is already on the pillow. He’s tired, and so cold now. It’s been a day of extremes; hot in the desert, and now freezing in this cell. Of the two, he preferred the desert, he thinks. He’d had a gun in the desert, and of course, he hadn’t been dying then.

He’d had John beside him in the desert. That had been good, too.

“Down here, John!” A woman’s voice. Not Irene. Not his mother. Maybe that computer person--Margaret? No, Molly. Molly? Why would…

He yawns. Oxygen deprivation, he thinks. He could check if his nails are starting to turn blue, but his hands seem too far away.

The bedroom in the mind palace is on the first floor. It’s well appointed, with tasteful wallcoverings and a luxurious rug, and best of all, a large, elegant bed. He frowns at the headboard, but there’s no one here to tie his hands to it, so he’ll let it go for now. The mattress is deep and soft, covered in crisp linens and a thick duvet. He looks down to find himself in spotless white flannel pajamas, and the warmth against his skin is welcome.

The door handle rattles, and then rattles again. “Sherlock!” a man’s voice calls, sounding as if he’s right outside the door, and he smiles as he fluffs his pillow. His brain has always been a good friend to him, he thinks fondly, as he slides under the covers. It isn’t failing him now, offering up John Watson’s voice as a comfort to him as he drifts off and away.


	19. 6:00PM to 7:00PM

“...John? Come in, John.” Molly’s voice crackles through his earpiece, a welcome distraction from the sound of his own harsh panting. “You’re doing great. Another 50 meters, a hard turn to the left, and you should see the entrance.”

“Copy that,” John replies, and a quick nod from Lestrade on his right confirms that he heard it as well. “No change in the readings?”

He hears the brief murmur of muffled conversation, and then Molly’s voice returns. “There’s still a lot of interference, but the tracker signal is pretty clear now. We’re still fairly sure there’s at least one life sign in close proximity, but that’s all we can get. We’re trying to boost the signal.”

“It’s fine, Molly, we’ll know soon enough. I can see the target up ahead. Stand by.” John and Lestrade slow to a stop a couple of meters away from the unmarked entrance to a hallway, and pause a moment to catch their breath. John pulls his pistol from the holster, and his eyes narrow in focus.

This has to be it. There’s a chair next to the doorway, with a depressed seat cushion and a half-empty water bottle just next to it suggesting recent occupation. A guard’s chair, John would guess. He exchanges a look with Lestrade, who nods and slips off the backpack he’s wearing and props it against the wall before pulling his own gun.

They’re ready. The two men slip silently down the hall. Two rooms face each other at the end of the hall, but only one door is open. John peeks around the corner to find the room mostly empty, save for a single metal office trash bin that holds a familiar pair of scuffed Italian loafers. “No clothes, but I’ve got a visual on the shoes, Molly,” John murmurs. 

“Confirmed.” She pauses. “Told you so.”

Despite himself, John grins. “Shut up.” He makes another sweep of the room, double checking behind the door. “This room is clear.”

“Copy that. The heat signature is coming from across the hall,” she says. “Final scans are clear. Looks like there’s no one else around. Go get him, Agent Watson.”

John nods. “Cover me,” he says to Lestrade, quickly sliding his gun back into the holster. He darts across the hall and tries the door, but it’s locked, and he can’t hear any sounds behind it. He starts pounding on the locked door, yelling Sherlock’s name as loudly as he can.

There’s no answer.

Angry, scared, and frustrated as one can possibly be, he finally rears back and prepares to kick the door in.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Greg growls, stepping in front of him. “You’ll break your bloody leg.”

“Well, what the hell do you want me to do?” John snaps, eyes flashing. “Call a locksmith?”

Greg smirks and rolls his eyes, and pushing John back out of the way, lifts his automatic pistol and fires. The shot echoes off the steel doors and around John’s ears, and the handle falls to the ground.

_ Smartarse, _ John thinks, but doesn’t take the time to say. He pushes the door open and steps in, Greg right behind him, taking up a post at the door. John breathes a sigh of relief. They’ve found Sherlock at last, and he’s alone and unguarded.

But something is terribly wrong. Sherlock looks like he’s been thrown onto the bed, limp and slumped motionless against the wall, except for the too-quick rise and fall of his chest. His mouth is slack, and Christ, he’s pale. A faint sheen of sweat shines on his brow. Worst of all is the towel that Sherlock’s flaccid arm is barely holding in place over one shoulder. The towel is red. Blood red.

Sherlock is unconscious, probably in shock, and he’s  _ bleeding. _

“Jesus,” Lestrade breathes. “He’s been shot.”

John leaps into action. “Med bag,” he orders, as he runs across the room. Greg disappears and is back within seconds. With a wide motion, he sends the backpack sliding behind him along the smooth concrete floor. It skids to a stop an arm’s distance away, catching on the lip of a drain set into the floor. John’s mind stutters on the drain, the mere presence of it, the need for it, but he pushes the thought away. Molly is squawking in his earpiece, demanding a report, but he pulls it out. He needs to concentrate. 

He snaps on a pair of nitrile gloves and deftly places two fingers over Sherlock’s carotid artery. He breathes a sigh of relief; the pulse is strong and steady. He carefully pushes back first one eyelid and then the other, and the pupils respond appropriately to the light. He’s not been drugged, then. That’s a relief. He lifts Sherlock’s hand and presses on his fingernail, watching the skin beneath blanch, and then return to its normal pink. The capillary refill time is less than two seconds, completely normal. He’s certainly seen worse. He closes his eyes for a brief moment as a flood of gratitude sweeps through him. It’s not as bad as it could be. A quick sweep of the rest of his body doesn’t uncover any other surprises; there are shallow cuts along his back, whip marks on the back of his thighs, some symmetrical bruising, but otherwise, nothing remarkable. Finally, he gingerly lifts the towel. It is in fact a bullet wound, but it’s a clean shot, through and through, and the bleeding has slowed to an ooze.

He stops for a moment to mull that over. That’s...surprising.

“What is?” Lestrade asks, and John realizes he’s been talking out loud. 

“The wound,” he says, replacing the towel and taking hold of Sherlock’s limp body by the shoulders. Lestrade takes the hint and slips his gun into his waistband, crossing the room to grab Sherlock’s ankles. “It’s definitely a gunshot, but it’s curious,” John says, as they slide Sherlock down to lie flat. John nods toward the bedding that is piled on the floor at the foot of the bed, and Lestrade nods and quickly hands him a blanket. “It didn’t hit any vessels or bone. In fact, it’s in the one spot that probably won’t cause him much trouble.” 

Lestrade straightens and stares down at his still friend as John tucks the blanket around Sherlock’s shoulders. “You think it was intentional?”

“Seems likely,” John admits. “That’s one hell of a lucky shot, if not.” He nods at the wall, where faint streaks of blood mark Sherlock’s earlier position. “Obviously, there are other wounds, but they’re not that severe. They were--” John swallows. “They must have been working him over when they heard the chopper. They could have killed him, but they didn’t.”

Lestrade hums thoughtfully, taking a step back as John starts fishing in the med bag, pulling out assorted plastic-wrapped medical supplies and a bag of IV fluids. Lestrade wordlessly takes the bag and a fluid line and starts putting them together, handling them with enough assurance to put John at ease. John slides Sherlock’s arm out from under the blanket and examines the veins, and then swipes the first of the two sterilization swabs across his skin. This is old habit, and he takes a moment to think. The fluids will help with the shock, and he has emergency antibiotics to get started with. Lestrade is keeping Molly updated, and she’s no doubt on her way. The second team should be here any minute as well, and they’ll establish a secure perimeter, so they’ll be able to stay here, at least for now. They’ll have a bit of time to get Sherlock awake and stable.

_ Awake. _ Sherlock will need pain medication--no matter how non-vital, a bullet through any muscle is going to hurt--but first and foremost, they need him awake. John sighs. If he had his way, he’d have Sherlock transported immediately to a trauma center, happily tripping on fentanyl, but they have to know what the hell happened here.  _ Sorry, sweetheart,  _ he thinks, and then wonders where the hell  _ that _ came from.

With the catheter in place, he quickly hooks up the fluids and opens the line, while Lestrade quickly fashions a clever sort of hook out of medical tape and secures the bag to the wall. The fluids start running. John fishes through the bag, looking for the antibiotics. From the corner of his eye, he sees Lestrade brush one of Sherlock’s curls off his forehead, and then softly run the back of one of his hands along Sherlock’s pale cheek. I'm not jealous, John tells himself firmly, and determinedly turns his back to the scene.

Molly rushes in behind them. “John, we found--” She stops short and stares at the scene before her.  “My god,” she finally manages. “Is he going to be all right?”

John nods. “He’s fairly stable, actually. I think he just passed out from the pain. He should wake up soon. What’s the word?”

Molly, still wide eyed, fumbles out her phone. “Um, the other team has arrived, and they’re securing the warehouses. It looks like everyone evacuated. But this isn’t just a research facility. They’ve done production here.”

“Production,” John echoes, turning around to face her. “On a large scale?”

She nods. “We’ve found the weapon, we think. They found some barrels in storage, and equipment and materiel to make more.” She swallows. “And they found--bodies.”

Lestrade steps up to look over her shoulder at her phone. “Did you say bodies? Like--corpses?”

“Yes. Um, people locked up, but, you know, dead. We’re assuming those are test subjects. But they also found the lab techs. Looks like they’d been locked into storage freezers.” Molly sways a bit, but her voice is steady. “All dead.”

“The lab techs? Shit,” Lestrade says. “That makes sense.”

John takes Molly firmly by the arm and steers her over to the chair by the door. One unconscious patient is enough. “Makes sense, how so?” he asks over his shoulder, as he quickly checks Molly’s pulse. He pulls a bottle of water from the med bag and offers it to her, and she smiles up at him gratefully

“All this fuss over Sherlock and the antidote,” Greg continues. “I doubt they could have known about Sherlock’s storage system.” He waggles his fingers at his own head. “They would have assumed there’d be back up, which, you know, there is, since Mycroft has access to the formula. So just stopping him wasn’t the goal. They actually need him to cook for  _ them. _ They don’t know how to protect themselves from their own weapon, see? They haven’t been able to create their own antidote. They weren’t trying to stop him--they  _ need _ him.”

Molly takes a drink from the bottle. “But if they got their hands on the formula itself, someone else could probably work it out,” she says, looking pensively at Sherlock’s still form. “Do you think he gave it to them?”

“No,” Lestrade says firmly.

“Could have done,” John says at the same time.

Lestrade shakes his head. “Nope. I don’t believe it. He would never.”

“He might not have been able to help himself.” John meets his eyes. “It wouldn’t make him weak. Have you ever been tortured?”

“No…” Lestrade admits. “But Sherlock’s brain is different, you know? And he’s a hell of a lot tougher than he looks.”

“Oh, I know,” John says, as he reaches for Sherlock’s wrist to recheck his pulse. He’s heartened to find it even stronger than before. The fluid bag is about to run out, and he grabs another from the med bag and sets it up, this time adjusting the slide for a more measured drip. “Well, one way or another, we’ll have to destroy all those barrels. It would be nice to get a little help with that.”

“Right.” Molly drinks the last of her bottle of water and stands, grinning and holding up a hand at John’s look of concern. “I’ll go find the other team leaders and bring them back here. Hopefully Sherlock will be awake by then, and we can plan the next stage of this operation. I don’t know about you two,” she says as she turns toward the door, “but as glad as I’ll be when all this is over, I’m looking forward to blowing some shit up.” She winks at them both, and leaves.

Lestrade’s mouth is still falling open as Molly’s footsteps echo down the hallway. John glances over at him, amused. “It’s always the quiet ones that surprise a man, isn’t it,” John muses.

“Yeah. Um, yeah, I mean--” Lestrade swallows. “Look, this is definitely not the time, but--do you know if she’s, well, available?”

John frowns. “I don’t know, actually. We just met a few hours ago. But…”

Lestrade lifts his brows. “What?”

“Well, I thought you and Sherlock had, you know. A history.”

“Yeah, me too,” comes a man’s voice from behind them at the door, and John’s already reaching for his gun when he hears a pistol being cocked. He can’t help but sigh, before sending Greg a quick glance and subtle shake of the head. 

Sherlock winces in his sleep, his forehead creasing, and his lips move as though he's trying to speak. He’s finally waking up, and God, John doesn’t want this man’s voice to be the first thing he hears. John’s fingers itch with the desire to touch, to soothe, to ease Sherlock back gently into consciousness, but he’s powerless to move.

Sebastian  _ Fucking _ Moran.

As he and Lestrade are slowly lifting their hands and turning toward the door, Moran takes a step in from the hallway. He looks like hell, unkempt and pale, with a bruise forming across one cheekbone. His gun, though, is steady. “Drop the weapons, gentlemen, we have urgent business to discuss. Lestrade, is that your name? Over there,” he says, motioning to the far corner. “Watson, wake your boy up. He’s got work to do.”

“I can’t just wake up an unconscious…” John starts to protest, but Moran steps in closer, eyes glittering in rage.

“That’s a regular field med bag, right, Doctor?” he says through gritted teeth. “Smelling salts are standard issue in those kits. Find them. Now.”

John opens his mouth to argue again, but Moran tightens the grip on his gun and shifts his aim to center on Sherlock’s chest. “Do it. He’s got work to do, and we’re on a tight schedule.”

John keeps the gun in his sights as he slowly reaches for the bag. It’s Lestrade who breaks the silence. “What do you mean, work?”

Moran’s grip doesn’t falter. “Your chemist needs to do some chemistry. Good thing you wore gloves, Doc. Your boy here’s been exposed.” He grins then, a humorless sneer, but John sees the fear behind it.

“And so have I.”


	20. 7:00PM to 8:00PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty is a bad man who does bad things, and some of them are discussed in this chapter. It's not explicit, but it is effed up. Please ping me if you want details before reading.
> 
> -

There are voices outside Sherlock’s bedroom window, and they will not let him sleep.

He burrows deeper into his pillow, attempting to block out the unwelcome sounds, but it’s no use. It’s like these people, whoever they are, are standing right next to the bed. The room is starting to grow brighter as well, and the light is seeping through his eyelids and making it impossible to slip back into slumber. That’s a shame, because he has a terrible headache. Also, his shoulder hurts, quite a bit, actually, and so does his back, now that he’s thinking about it. He really needs to get himself a new mattress.

The voices start up again, even more loudly this time. God, it’s as if these people are right up against his bloody ear. Is there no such thing as common courtesy in this neighborhood? He considers confronting them, but that would involve raising the blinds, and it’s already too damn bright.

And besides, his throat is rather dry.

“Sherlock?” one of the voices asks, a familiar voice, and how do they know...wait, that’s John. John Watson’s voice is in his head, and his mood changes immediately. This voice is welcome. He tries to answer, but he can’t...quite…

“Shh,” John says from the other side of the wall, but he would swear he feels the whisper across his skin. “Don’t move, okay? You’ve had a rough afternoon.”

Afternoon? No, it’s morning. Isn’t it? He turns to check the alarm clock on the side table, but the motion triggers a blast of searing pain from his shoulder that shoots up across his chest and neck. Light blazes in his vision, and the walls of his bedroom fall away.

He gasps and opens his eyes.

John is looking down at him, a mixture of worry and kindness in his eyes. “There you are,” he murmurs. “We’ve been waiting for you. I’m sorry, I couldn’t give you anything for the pain. We needed you to wake up.”

“John,” Sherlock rasps, blinking hard. It’s all he can think to say.

“I’m here now,” John answers, and Sherlock hears regret in those words, though he doesn’t understand it. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock stops to consider the question. The honest answer is that everything hurts, and he’s thirsty as hell. “Been better,” he finally whispers. “Water?”

Lestrade appears behind John’s shoulder and holds up a bottle of water with a straw. He, too, is a welcome sight, but his appearance leaves Sherlock even more disoriented. “Here you go. Take it easy, now. You don’t want to get sick.”

He holds the bottle down next to Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock turns his head in slow increments to put his lips to the straw. The movements are excruciating, but the water is cool and fresh on his parched tongue. “Thank you,” he says after a few sips, sounding much more himself. “Where are we?”

John and Greg exchange a glance. “What do you remember?” John asks gently.

Sherlock frowns as he concentrates. “Not much, really. Waking up--” He squints up at the ceiling. “Here, I guess?” God, his head hurts. “A woman...oh. She kept talking...she hurt me.” His eyes grow wide, and he lifts his hand toward his wounded shoulder. “Did I get shot?”

“Well, yes,” John says, “but you’re going to be fine. I gave you some antibiotics and rinsed the wound out with a local. Is it bad?”

Sherlock starts to shrug, but another bolt of pain makes him freeze. “Only when I move, apparently.”

“I’m sorry,” John says again, and the sorrow on his face makes Sherlock feel bad about complaining. “That’s still to be expected, unfortunately. Do you remember anything else?”

Sherlock frowns in concentration, and the shock of the memory hits before the words do. _“Fuck!”_ He scrambles with his heels, trying to move away from John. They don’t know, they _don’t know_. “Jesus, I’m bleeding, I’m--” He pushes up onto his elbows, and the pain nearly makes him black out. He fights it. “Stay back,” he gasps. “Don’t touch me!” He’s on the verge of panic, but through the haze he sees John reaching out a gloved hand.

“Stop, Sherlock,” he says urgently. “You’re going to hurt yourself. We know you’ve been exposed. We’re all wearing gloves. It’s okay.”

Sherlock is panting, but the words get through and after a tense moment, he’s able to relax, just a little. “It’s okay,” John repeats, more calmly. “We’re going to get you through this, all right? But first, there are things you need to know.” He hesitates. “Try again. Do you remember how you got here?”

Sherlock slips into the mind palace for a moment, flipping through foggy memories in the card catalog of his library until he comes to the confrontation in the alley. A cold flash of terror sweeps through him. “Moran,” he says, his voice laced with dread.

“You rang?” sings out a dark voice behind him, and he doesn’t have to look farther than John’s face to know that, for as poorly as he feels right now, he’s about to feel much, much worse.

\---

“Found this,” Moran had grunted, as he’d thrown Sherlock’s backpack at his feet, offering no further explanation. Lestrade is carrying it for him now; he hadn’t been able to stand the pressure on his wounded back. The sling that John fashioned from torn sheets supports his injured shoulder fairly well, but Sherlock’s balance is still uncertain, and even in his familiar, rescued shoes, he stumbles as Moran herds the three of them down the corridor. John puts a hand on Sherlock’s unwounded shoulder from behind to steady him, and then slides his hand down to his elbow and keeps it there. The pressure helps to keep him in the here and now, and not roaming the dark corners of his mind palace. It’s far too easy to imagine what might come next.

After another few steps, John squeezes Sherlock’s elbow. Sherlock waits until Moran is looking away and risks a quick glance backwards. He’s rewarded for his daring with a flirty wink, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. They both grin and keep walking. He knows John is just trying to keep him calm, but it’s working.

Moran, on the other hand, is growing more agitated with every step. He’s flushed, muttering to himself as he keeps close watch over his three captives. They’re keeping a steady pace, nearing a crossroads of corridors that appears to connect at least three wings of this seemingly endless building. “Hold up,” Moran growls, holding his gun on Lestrade as he peeks cautiously around the corner. Sherlock takes advantage of his distraction to catch John’s eye.

 _Where are we?_ Sherlock mouths.

 _Prison,_ John silently replies.

Sherlock huffs soundlessly. He’d figured that out already; the cellblocks they’d passed had made it rather obvious. He lifts his brows. _Right, where?_

_Texas._

Texas. Sherlock closes his eyes and brings up a map of the US in his mind’s eye. It makes sense: indifferent government regulation, low population density on the fringes, long miles of train tracks and highways. There must be hundreds of big empty buildings in Texas: prisons like this one, warehouses, hospitals. He realizes it’s a lucky thing John found him when he did.

John is waving a low hand to catch Sherlock’s attention again. _All right?_

Sherlock considers. No, he feels like living, breathing hell, and he’s starving. But he knows what John is asking, and he gives an encouraging nod.

He’s not feeling the effects of the weapon, at least not yet.

Moran gets them moving again, but it’s only a minute or so more before he’s stopping them in front of a door with a glass window. “Pharmacological Research Department,” the engraved plaque next to the door reads. A handwritten sign taped to the door itself reads “Geek HQ.” The biohazard symbol on the piece of paper beneath it has obviously been printed out from the internet.

“You, in here,” he says, pushing Lestrade toward a door across the hall from the lab. John starts to follow him, but Moran holds up a hand. “Nope, Doc, I want you with me. You can help me motivate your boy here.”

“Motivate how?” Sherlock asks, watching helplessly as Lestrade hands over Sherlock’s backpack and is shoved inside what looks to be a storage closet. Moran lets the door close, and presses a few keys on the keypad. The lock clicks, and the pad glows green.

“I’ll come up with something,” Moran answers, his eyes glowing. “How about...I’ll pull off a fingernail for every five minutes you make me wait for a cure.”

Sherlock gasps, but John just smirks. “Fine. You can start with this one,” he says, holding up the middle finger on his left hand. A snort of laughter escapes Sherlock’s throat, but Moran is definitely not amused. “Shut up,” he growls, and throws open the door. The automatic lights flicker on as they cross the threshold.

Sherlock can’t help but give a little hum of satisfaction. This is a beautiful lab, fully appointed and state of the art. There’s an analyzer he’s been requisitioning for years on the bench. The fume hood on the side wall hums with an expensive quiet. He could lose himself here for hours, and might ask for the privilege when all this is over...

Unless he dies first. He shudders and resolutely turns his mind to the task at hand.

Moran starts to open the cabinets over the bench. “You should have everything you need,” he says. “This was where the prototype was designed.”

“But they couldn’t get the antidote figured out?” John is inspecting the cabinets with interest.

Moran shrugs. “More complicated than they expected, was what I was told. Something about…”

“Concentration and stability,” Sherlock finishes absently. He’s standing in front of a cabinet, looking at the boxes of chemicals. He sees right away what their problem was, but why didn’t someone...“Is there a refrigerator?”

Moran nods toward the corner of the room and Sherlock walks over quickly and opens it, looking for...there. There are twelve boxes of a crucial compound in the cabinet behind him, sitting there useless after weeks at room temperature. The chemicals would react, yes, but the reaction would be uncontrollable and unstable. You had to keep them cold until the last possible moment. Someone was on the right track, though; there’s a single box of the same compound on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. The concentration is wrong, too strong, but that could be handled with the right diluent and a bit of care. They’d gotten so close.

Sherlock slams the door and turns to confront him. “Tell me what happened to them,” he demands. “The scientists. What did you do?”

John looks up at him, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“They almost had it figured out,” Sherlock says, still staring at Moran. “Something stopped them. What?”

Moran gives him a long steady look. “The boss got impatient,” he says finally.

“The boss,” John repeats.

“Yes. My...employer. He doesn’t handle disappointment well.”

“If I may ask,” Sherlock interjects drily, “is your employer a slight Irish fellow with a fetish for good tea?” Moran looks away. “Ah. We’ve met, then. He’s insane, you know.”

To Sherlock’s surprise, Moran nods ruefully in agreement. “You don’t even know the half of it. The initial design went well, and the team even finished ahead of schedule. They started production, and everything was going just fine, until the foreman got sick. Turned out he’d been exposed.”

“Shit.” Sherlock looks over at John, who does not look surprised. “You knew already,” he observes.

“Molly’s team found some bodies,” John says, not taking his eyes off Moran.

Moran shoots an angry glance at John, but goes on. “At first everyone wrote it off to the sloppiness of that one man, but then another two floor workers went down. Forty-eight hours later, two more.”

Sherlock sits down hard on a stool, and his breath leaves in a whoosh. He closes his eyes and slips into the lab of his mind palace, starts flipping through his notebooks. “The formula isn’t stable in aerosol form,” he says numbly. “They had to ingest it, or get it through body fluids. Blood, saliva.” He swallows. “It was intentional, wasn’t it. Test subjects.”

“Yeah, something like that. Of course, the rest of the employees thought it was contamination. After the second couple of guys went down, everyone panicked. They were on the verge of rioting, screaming that they were going to call the police. So the boss…” Moran trails off.

It’s John that finishes the thought. “He locked them in.”

“Yeah. He’d been pressuring the scientists to come up with the antidote, had them working around the clock. They thought they were getting close. The boss would bring them infected workers from the floor and--” Moran turns and points to two folding chairs in the corner. “He would tie them up and set timers next to them, counting down how long they had left to live. The scientists had to work with them watching.”

John’s eyes are closed. “That’s sick.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “But that’s not all, is there.”

“No, but you already know where this is going. You’d been on his radar forever, you know, and he was getting reports from your brother’s office, and one day he’d finally had enough. Told the researchers that if one skinny Brit could do it, why couldn’t they? And he forced them...Took them down to the production floor and locked them in with the rest of the crew. He shut off the water supply and only gave them bottled water. It was contaminated, of course, but only the scientists knew it for sure. There was nothing they could do.”

“Christ,” John spits. “Where is that bastard now?”

“Long gone,” Moran shrugs. “He put the project on an indefinite hold until he could figure out a way to keep everyone alive. He’s probably on a beach in Mexico by now.”

“And you?” Sherlock asks. “How were you infected?”

“Ah, yes. That’s your fault as well.” Moran perches on the edge of one of the stools. “What happened was, this morning he invited me to his office to discuss the next phase of the operation. He offered me tea and we chatted merrily for fifteen lovely minutes before he started explaining to me exactly how disappointed he’d been to hear I hadn’t died in that plane crash. Like I said, not too forgiving of failure.”

Inexplicably, John chuckles. “Well, to be fair, we were pretty disappointed about the plane crash, too,” he says, and Sherlock has to swallow another laugh.

Moran glares at them both. “Enough of this. Holmes, get to work. We’re both running out of time. Watson and I will be over here keeping an eye on you.” He points at the lab bench. “Get it right the first time, Professor,” he says quietly. “Those bastards really suffered. I don’t fancy going out the same way.”

Sherlock looks around the lab and nods. “For once, we agree on something, Moran. Neither do I.” He meets John’s eyes. “My backpack, please,” he says quietly, sliding his arm out of the sling, and John nods and hands it over.

He snaps on a pair of gloves, pulls out his very wrinkled but hopefully still lucky lab coat, and gets to work.

\---

There’s an easy rhythm to it, but then he’s been doing it for years. It’s almost automatic: measuring, distilling, reducing. He’s had to do a bit of math to get the concentrations to work, and there was a tricky bit of timing with some acids, but finally, the solution is bubbling happily over a flame. He’s staring down at it now, stirring it absently with a glass rod.

His shoulder aches, the cuts on his back sting, and he’s been a bit dizzy, but he’s upright and able to concentrate, and for now that’s going to have to be good enough. At one point, Sherlock had surfaced from his calculations to find a heavily sugared cup of tea on the bench next to him. A quick glance at John had confirmed the source. He must have convinced Moran that Sherlock needed it, and he hadn’t been wrong. He’d gulped it down gratefully, after reminding himself that he needn’t worry about contamination any longer. He’d traded that worry for another.

In a corner of the lab, Moran is holding John at gunpoint. It hasn’t stopped John from needling him, apparently trying to keep him off balance and out of Sherlock’s way. It’s made almost no difference at all--Sherlock is very good at shutting out external inputs when he’s working--but it’s a kindness all the same.

Moran is flushed and sweating, and Sherlock can see a faint rash starting at his hairline. It’s a reminder that the clock is ticking.

He knows John is watching him closely; every time Sherlock has looked over, he’s seen both concern and admiration in his eyes. Sherlock would have expected that such attention would be distracting and unwelcome. It’s not, though, not at all. It’s been...reinforcing. Bracing. Again, he’s going to have to consider why the effects of John’s presence are so different from any he’s known before.

But this isn’t the time. The dot matrix printer attached to the clacking computer in the mind palace basement comes to life, and he slips over to rip off the printout. He'd copied these particular formulas from the walls of the pirate ship, long ago. It’s been awhile since he needed to query these particular archives, but the data still seem sound. This should work. It has to work.

“Mycroft,” he hears Moran say with derision, and that brings him back to the present. The stirring doesn’t falter, but now he’s listening closely. “ _That_ idiot. Thinks he’s so smart, but couldn’t be bothered to do a proper background check, could he? Hired my step niece to be one of his fancy assistants.” Moran’s laughter is dry and unpleasant. “I had all kinds of things on her, too. Family is so easy. But in the end, I didn’t even have to threaten her. She was happy to do what we asked her to for a few bucks.”

“I see honor runs in the family,” John observes impassively.

Moran splutters. Sherlock doesn’t look over, but he presses his lips together in a smile he knows John will be able to see. That was a good one.

Moran goes on with his babbling, something about his niece bribing the other assistants, and after a minute, Sherlock tunes back out. He pulls another Bunsen burner from the cabinet, sets up a test tube stand, and starts pulling chemicals from the cupboard. This isn’t complicated, but he’ll need to be precise. He makes quick work of the measurements and sets the tube up over the flame.

The first solution changes color, and he turns down the heat. The second bubbles for a moment, and then turns clear. He’s almost done.

“Two cities?” he hears John ask with surprise. It takes him a moment to understand what’s being discussed. “With separate production facilities?”

Moran nods. “Yeah. All the research was done here, but there was another factory.”

Damn. It’s not pleasant to hear, but Sherlock had figured that out anyway. “Where’s the other one?” John asks.

Moran sneers. “Oh, what do you care anyway, Watson? It’s not even your country.”

“Look,’ John huffs. “You’re going to kill me anyway, right?”

Sherlock freezes, but Moran just nods. “Yeah, of course.”

“So consider this a last request. Tell me the targets.”

“Back to work, Holmes,” Moran snaps, and Sherlock jumps and resumes his stirring. “Last wish, huh?” he continues, turning back to John with a faint smile. “You know what, fine. I’ll give you one. For old times’ sake.”

John spreads his hands and waits.

Moran gives a little bow. “Chicago.”

“Chicago,” John repeats, disbelieving. “Why Chicago?”

Moran grins with apparent satisfaction. “The Boss is a Cardinals fan? Doesn’t like the blues? I don’t know. Why does the bastard do anything?”

Sherlock’s eyes flick up to the cabinets, and he feels a faint glow of satisfaction. God, but Moran is an idiot.

Another couple of minutes over the flame, and everything looks ready. John’s growing agitated as he alternately pleads with and threatens Moran, desperate for more information, but Sherlock is as calm as he’s ever been. Time in a lab tends to do that for him. At last, he distills the solution into an Erlenmeyer flask and takes a deep breath. “Moran,” he says. “It’s ready.”

The silence that falls in the room is fraught. John stares at the flask with narrowed eyes, and it occurs to Sherlock that to all practical purposes, he appears to be aiding the enemy. He blinks once, and then again, trying to catch John’s eye, but John won’t look at him directly.

Shit. Sherlock wishes they could have had a minute to put a plan together. There’s nothing for it now, though; they’re truly out of time.

“Took you long enough,” Moran growls, as Sherlock pours half of the liquid into a beaker and holds it out. Moran reaches for it; his hands are shaking, and it could be written off as anxiety, if the beds of his fingernails weren’t now tinged with blue.

Sherlock looks from Moran’s hands to his glassy eyes. Here comes the fever, he thinks. “You’d better hurry.”

Moran starts to raise the the beaker to his lips, but before he can take a sip, there’s a rumble of loud footsteps in the hall. The door is thrown open, and Molly rushes in, gun in hand and two armed men behind her, all stopping short as Moran swings to face them. The tremor in his hand is obvious, but he’s still able to aim his gun.

“Drop it,” Molly says, a touch of uncertainty in her voice.

“Back off,” Moran growls, tightening his grip on the gun. “You won’t hurt me.”

“Oh, really?” Molly asks, her eyes widening as she takes in Moran’s appearance, Sherlock in his lab coat, the flask and beaker. “What makes you think that?” She sends a desperate look over to John, but John’s eyes are locked on Moran and his flask, and Sherlock behind him.

“You won’t hurt me,” Moran repeats, “because you won’t hurt him. Hell, you wouldn’t hurt anybody.” He takes a cautious step back, and then another, until he is standing directly next to Sherlock. He turns his gun slowly, deliberately, until it is aimed directly at Sherlock’s head. “Now, I’m going to take my medicine, and everyone is going to stand very still and watch.”

Moran looks around the room again, and then, apparently satisfied, he starts to raise the beaker to his pale lips. At the last second, he stops and looks at Sherlock. He blinks and narrows his eyes suspiciously, slowly lowering the container. “No,” he says to Sherlock, nodding at the flask in Sherlock’s hand. “You first.”

“I--really?” Sherlock blinks and looks down at the flask, wide eyed. “I don’t think you have the time to--”

Moran presses the gun to his temple. “Do it. Now.”

Sherlock looks over at John, who meets his eyes. John’s gaze flicks down to the flask, and Sherlock sees his expression turn to one of concern as he finally starts to understand. He gives John a small smile and a tiny shrug. He has to follow through.

“All right,” he says in a quiet voice, and, taking a deep breath, takes a long drink of the solution straight from the flask. He grimaces--it’s bitter, there was no time to address the palatability issue--but the second swallow goes down more easily, and soon enough the container is empty. Sherlock sets it down on the lab bench, and then stands very still, staring down at his hands.

Moran leans in, watching him closely for an entire minute. “How do you feel?” he finally asks.

Sherlock draws in a long, shuddering breath. “Fine,” he says, lifting his head and looking back at him with wide eyes. “I feel _fine.”_

Moran rears back in surprise. “Yeah?”

Sherlock breaks into a huge grin. “Yeah,” he says, starting to laugh.

Moran stares at him a moment longer, and then starts to chuckle. “You clever bastard,” he breathes, and drinks the contents of his beaker all at once.

Moran clears his throat and showily wipes his mouth. “Cor, it tastes like shite,” he says. “We’ll have to work on that.” He slowly turns back to John, who looks both stunned and furious. “Your boyfriend is a hell of a cook, Watson. This changes everything. Our team can get back on schedule, and I’ll be a hero. Now, call off your team,” he says, taking a now-steady aim at Sherlock’s head, “and let us leave.”

“Now, Molly!” John shouts, and she quickly throws the gun over to him. He catches, cocks, and aims it in one sure motion that Sherlock would find thrilling, if John wasn’t aiming directly at _him._

“You know I can’t let you leave with him,” John says calmly, and Sherlock’s heart sinks as he realizes John isn’t talking to Moran. John’s face is pale, but his voice is steady. “Part of my assignment was to keep you from falling into terrorist hands. I don’t want to, but I will kill you if I have to.”

“John,” Sherlock says, reaching out his hand. “John, please.”

John shakes his head, his face grim and determined. “I don’t understand,” he says to Sherlock, his words sharp. “I thought you were on our side. You _know_ how critical this is, but you still helped him. You could have let him die, and that would have been the end of it, at least for now. So, explain this, Sherlock, because…” His voice has grown quiet and very controlled, and Sherlock can almost feel the anger radiating off his skin. “I don’t understand,” John repeats in a tight whisper.

Moran looks between the two of them and starts to laugh. “You idiot, you should put that on a…” His voice trails off and a strange look crosses his face. He sways once and then collapses, out cold.

Sherlock looks up to meet John’s shocked gaze.

“You were saying?” Sherlock asks, eyebrow raised. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very grateful to Jen for her edits on this chapter, and for her input. She's a star.


	21. 8:00PM to 9:00PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that there's a story in this chapter with vague allusions to attempted sexual assault of one minor by another. No details are given, but if you need to skip this, it won't alter the overall flow of the story. Check notes at the bottom if you want to know where to tune out and then back in. Be safe and care for yourself.

“What..how…” John is as confused as he’s ever been, looking between Moran’s prone form and Sherlock’s arch expression. He grabs Sherlock’s arm, distantly aware enough to reach for the uninjured one. “Are you all right? Are you going to...Is this a side effect of the antidote? Wait…” John gasps as an idea strikes him. “Is he dead?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, John. Of course he’s not dead, give me some credit.” He takes two swift steps to Moran’s side and kicks the gun that has fallen from his slack hand in John’s direction. “Have you never mixed a dry martini?”

John stoops to pick up the gun, blinking at the unexpected change of topic. “Sorry, what?”

“Martini. I’m assuming you have. I’m not a fan of them personally, but I used to mix them for my parents. For the perfect dry gin martini, how do you measure the vermouth?”

Molly speaks up. “I did some bartending in uni. You don’t measure the vermouth, you pour it over the ice and drain it before you add the gin. Or, if you want it really dry, you just rinse the glass with it.” Her eyes light up, and she starts to laugh. “Oh my god, you’re kidding me.”

Sherlock shoots her a sly grin. “Nope,” he says.  
  
Molly is shaking her head now. “You’re telling me, after you mixed up the antidote, you concocted a sedative…”

“Not just any sedative,” Sherlock interjects. “A tasteless, colorless, highly concentrated sedative.”

“Right, and you…”

“Rinsed his beaker with it, and poured the antidote in after,” John finishes. He looks at Sherlock with shining eyes. “Fantastic.”

He’s dismayed to see Sherlock’s smile fade as he turns away. “Will someone please let Lestrade out?” Sherlock asks over his shoulder, as he starts rinsing the used glassware.

John frowns at his back as Molly slips through the door.

\---

They pool their pocket change to buy out the vending machine down the hall and sit down around the table in the break room, just across from the lab. Sherlock sits quietly at one end, staring blankly at his hands, and John takes the opportunity to study him in detail. He’s incredibly pale. He’s keeping very still, seeming to move only when he has to, demonstrating a distinct lack of the dynamic animation John admired only a few hours ago. There are deep blue rings under his eyes, and he’s slumped against the back of his chair. Sherlock might be out of danger as far as the weapon goes, but he looks like a man in for a long, painful recovery. Then again, it’s really impressive that he’s held up for as long as he has. John makes sure Sherlock has a can of regular Coke and a package of candy within arms’ reach--a little sugar might help keep him going. As John watches, Lestrade opens a bag of crisps and turns them to face Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock gives him a gentle smile of thanks, and John once again finds himself pushing away a flare of jealousy.

Moran is still unconscious, his arms cuffed around a concrete pillar in the corner. _His_ color is decent, but he’ll probably find a few bruises he won’t be able to explain when he awakes. The guys on the team don’t take well to traitors either, apparently, though all they’ve done is drag him across the hall.

After everyone has opened their drinks and had a bite or two of junk food, Molly clears her throat and speaks into the silence. “Mycroft has an airstrike ready to go,” she says. “We just need to clear the area.”

John nods, but Sherlock looks at her with confusion. “An airstrike? Why would he do that?”

John looks at him. “Um, to destroy the weapon?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Unnecessary. We can neutralize it easily from here, with the antidote. Lower expense, less environmental impact.”

Molly bites her lip. “It’s a nice idea, but we don’t have much time, and honestly, Sherlock, you’re dead on your feet. It would take the rest of us hours to figure out how to...”

“Don’t need cook time,” Sherlock interrupts. “Not for this.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and John can see the effort all this talking is costing him. He glances around the table, and sees a mixture of curiosity and skepticism, which seems appropriate. Still, he and Moran are alive and well, and Moran is snoring in the corner, dead to the world. Sherlock deserves a hearing. “Explain.”

Sherlock nods. “It’s stored in steel barrels, right?” Molly nods. “Then all you need is a simple mixture. Most of the parts are in the fridge.” He takes a sip from his soda can, wincing at the taste, or maybe the bubbles. “The antidote has to be heat activated and very concentrated in the body to evade the immune system. It’s really a complicated little formula. But in a stable storage system…”

“Like steel barrels,” Lestrade cuts in.

Sherlock nods. “You don’t need all that. What you do need can be cold mixed, and is effective at low concentrations. All you’d have to do is inject a small amount through the opening at the top of the barrel. Time and diffusion will do the rest.”

“How much time?” asks Molly.

“Maybe four or five minutes per barrel,” Sherlock answers. “There is one tricky part, though. The solution has to sit for ten minutes after you add the water for maximum potency, and it has to be kept cold.”

“How cold?” John asks.

“As cold as possible. Close to freezing, if there’s a way.”

“I didn’t see any freezers down there,” says Molly thoughtfully. “But there is an ice machine near the elevators. It was running.”

Sherlock nods. “That could work.”

John claps his hands once, making everyone jump. “That’s one problem solved, then. Molly, call Mycroft and bring him up to speed. Sherlock, you and Lestrade go back to the lab and mix up the chemicals.” He stands and walks over to Moran where he’s locked around the pillar. He stares down at him. “That’s one hell of a sedative you cooked up.” He nudges him with the toe of his boot, but Moran doesn’t stir. “I don’t suppose you could come up with some truth serum.”

Sherlock sniffs. “Whatever for? He never shuts up as it is. I’m rather enjoying the peace.”

“Well, we still have to figure out where the other production site is.”

“No, we don’t,” Sherlock says, taking another sip of his soda. “We know where it is.”

John blinks, looking over to Greg, who shrugs. “We do?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Do you lot even have eyes?” Sherlock pushes himself up to his feet and jerks his chin in the direction of the lab. “I’ll show you.”

John orders the two team members to keep watch over Moran, and the rest of them move together across the hall. Sherlock walks with determination to one of the cabinets over the lab bench and throws the doors open wide.

“There,” he says, gesturing to the shelves. Greg, John and Molly crowd in closely together to look at the boxes. It takes John a moment to see it.

“Oh,” he breathes. He looks over at Sherlock with a grin. “You knew all along.”

Sherlock tips his head in acknowledgment. “As soon as we got in here, yes. I couldn’t believe that he just handed you Chicago, when we had the other one right here.”

Greg squints more closely. “I don’t see it. What am I looking for?”

John sees when Molly puts it together. “The shipping label,” she says. “They probably had all their supplies shipped to a P.O. box in the other city, close to the other location. Once they picked it up and sorted it all out, they shipped what they needed here by truck.”

Sherlock nods. “We still have to find the exact location, but their other production site is somewhere in Atlanta.”

“Atlanta,” John echoes. “In the very shadow of the CDC. Arrogant bastards.”

Molly pulls out her laptop. “As soon as I talk to Mycroft, I’ll start a search. If we’re lucky, there’ll be someone on overnight duty at that post office.”

“Well, you found me here in the middle of nowhere, so this one should be easy.” Sherlock gives her a tired smile. “Thank you, by the way,” he adds, quietly.

John doesn’t miss her shy smile back, but he’s distracted by a moan coming from the break room. He crosses the hall and looks down at Moran, who’s just beginning to move his head. Sherlock, after a pause, walks slowly over to stand beside him.

“We don’t need him anymore,” John muses quietly, and it sounds almost like an afterthought.

“No, not really,” Sherlock answers, in the same distant tone.

“So...I could kill him, couldn’t I.” John glances at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. Sherlock doesn’t look surprised.

“You could, but…” Sherlock blows out a long breath. “It’s been a long day already. I don’t think you’d fancy that kind of paperwork at the end of it.”

John acknowledges the joke with a nod, but doesn’t smile. “I’m not really kidding, though, I don’t think,” he says, dropping his voice even lower. “He nearly got you killed today. Twice. And what they did to your back--” He feels the beginning of rage flickering in his belly. “Anyway, I have my own reasons for wanting to see him dead. No one would mourn him.”

“John,” Sherlock says, and slowly reaches over and takes John’s wrist. “Let Mycroft have him.”

John shakes his head. “He’ll get off again, or someone will pull strings, or he’ll escape, and then I’ll have to--”

“John,” Sherlock says again, squeezing once. “Mycroft won’t let him go. He doesn’t work through official channels all the time, my brother. For a bureaucrat, he can be rather creative. He knows what Moran did, or he will. He’ll handle it. Trust me.”

John presses his lips together and keeps looking down, where Moran is starting to moan.

“Trust me,” Sherlock repeats. “You can kick him now, though, if you like. Twice, even, if it helps.”

John snorts, but he gives the suggestion a moment of serious thought. “No,” he says at last. “My boots are too good for him.”

Sherlock smiles in agreement. “True.” He starts to turn back toward the door, but John grabs his hand.

“Wait. I mean, would you? Just…”

Sherlock looks down at him with a quizzical expression.

John takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he says in a rush. “I had no right to say what I did. Of course I know you didn’t...you wouldn’t…”

“Commit treason?” Sherlock interjects drily.

“Yes. Exactly.” John takes a step closer. “No one has given as much to this operation as you have,” he says, low and suddenly intent. “No one. And this--” With a wave, John indicates Moran, the guns, and the team. “This isn’t even your area. So, I really am sorry, Sherlock. I was an arsehole.”

Sherlock considers him for a long moment, and John forces himself not to look away. “Yes,” Sherlock says at last. “You were. And I was upset by it, it’s true. But it’s your job, isn’t it. To be suspicious. And between you and me…” He leans close to John’s ear. “I rather like it when you’re an arsehole,” he murmurs, a smile in his voice.

John bursts out laughing. “You’re an idiot.”

Sherlock shakes his head gravely. “Ah, but John. I’ve got to extraordinary lengths today to prove that I am not.” He hesitates, and then with a sigh leans his forehead down to meet John’s. “I’m so tired,” he whispers. “I just want to go home.”

Tenderness wells up in John, burying his rage, his sorrow, his self-recriminations. He closes his eyes and lifts his other hand up to the back of Sherlock’s head, burying it in Sherlock’s thick curls and feeling him relax just a little under the touch. “I know,” he answers gently. “We’re so close now. Soon, okay? I’ll escort you home personally and tuck you in myself. I swear.”

Sherlock hums, lips turning up in a tiny smile. “All right,” he says. “But tea first.”

John laughs softly. “Of course.”

They jump and separate quickly when Molly clears her throat behind them. “Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,” she says, and John sees color high on her cheeks. “Mycroft would like to know what you’d like to do with Moran.”

John sighs and looks to Sherlock one last time for confirmation. Trust him, he’d said, and John does. “Tell him to come take out the trash.” Molly nods and says a few words into the phone before disconnecting the call, and they all walk back to the lab.

“All right,” John says, turning to face the group. “Let’s get this done. Sherlock, give us enough of the chemicals to get started. Lestrade, stay with Sherlock, and make sure he gets whatever he needs as he’s pulling the supplies together for Atlanta. We might find what we need onsite there, but better to be prepared. Molly, you’ll be with me.”

Sherlock is shaking his head. “No.”

“No?”

“Leave Molly with me,” Sherlock says. “She can help me when I need it, but otherwise, she can work on the search for the other site. Take Lestrade.”

“You sure?” John asks, brows raised. “I thought you’d want him close by.”

“Yes, I’m sure. He’s too much a man of action. He’ll just sit there and--” Sherlock flaps his hands. “Radiate. He’ll be useless to me in a lab. Sorry, Greg,” he adds, but Lestrade gives John a friendly smile.

“He’s right,” he says cheerfully. “I’ll just piss him off. I’m yours to command, mate.”

John nods. “Fine,” he says. “We’ll take these guys and the other team, so we can get this done as quickly as possible.”

Sherlock hands each of them a box. “Moran told us that they’d shut the water off to the production floor, so you might need to run a hose from somewhere else. Two level cups of each into fifteen liters of water.” He looks around. “You’ll need--”

“There are empty five gallon jugs down there,” Molly says. “I saw them. They’re not far from the ice machine.”

“Perfect. Five gallons is nineteen liters, so fill the containers three-quarters full. And remember to keep it all cold for ten minutes after you mix to allow the reaction to occur. One hundred milliliters per barrel should do it. Take some of the Erlenmeyer flasks. You’ll be less likely to drop them.”

John straightens. “Right, then,” he says, and everyone scatters to gather their supplies. He gives Molly a long look. “Keep an eye on him?” he murmurs, and she gives him a quick smile.

“I’ve got him. Go,” she says, making a shooing motion. He nods once and steps out into the hall.

Everyone turns to head toward the stairs, but John hesitates. He turns back and firmly closes the door to the break room.

“See you in hell, you miserable bastard,” he says under his breath, and sends up a quick prayer that Mycroft comes soon.

\---

The decontamination process goes remarkably well.

They’re able to get the water to the factory floor turned back on, and the five gallon containers are right where Molly said they’d be. At John’s direction, they place the containers inside large black plastic rubbish bags, fill the containers three quarters full with water, add the chemicals, and then quickly fill the spaces between the bags and the containers with ice. Lestrade nods approvingly at the economy of the process.

“Very tidy. Like making homemade ice cream in a can,” he says, as he drops down to sit against the wall.

“We used to carry samples like this, back in Afghanistan,” John says, dropping down to lean next to him. “Easier to throw a plastic bag of ice in your backpack than carry a cooler.”

“Samples?” Lestrade asks, eyes dancing.

John closes his eyes. “Yeah. Blood, urine.” He smiles at a memory. “Moonshine.”

“There it is,” Greg murmurs. “The truth will always come out.”

John lets the silence settle for a moment. “Speaking of truth and history…”

Greg laughs. “I wondered if you were ever going to ask. Go on, then.”

 _Finally_. John dives right in. “How did you two meet?”

“What did Sherlock tell you?”

John looks at him with amusement. “Somehow, I haven’t had time to ask.”

“Oh, right,” Lestrade says at last. It’s his turn to think, and John lets him take the time. “All right. You know he’s tough.”

John nods. “Yeah. Surprisingly so.”

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t always. We met at school, and I can remember how the other boys used to beat him up. You can imagine, right? Skinny thing, with that bloody accent, and god, he was a proud bastard. And he saw everything, you know, even then. He’d call out cheaters, liars, petty thieves to their faces. Less of a sense of humor in those days. He got more than one black eye for shooting off his mouth. Wasn’t exactly a peach the first time we chatted, I can tell you.”

“Oh.” John tries to imagine it, a young Sherlock both delicately formed and lethally brilliant, and finds that it’s fairly easy to do. He nods for Greg to go on.

“One day I was walking through the village, and I heard voices coming out of an alley. At first, I didn’t think it was anything I needed to worry about, but...Sherlock’s voice carries, you know.”

“I’ve noticed,” John says. He sees Greg beginning to tap his fingers on his leg, an obvious tell of increasing tension. John deliberately looks away, to give him a little space.

“He’d gone and gotten trapped in an alley by one of the larger boys,” Lestrade continues after a minute. “The boy had a reputation for...well. Some of the stories about boys’ schools are true, you know? But of course, Sherlock didn’t have any friends to gossip with, and no one had warned him...I don’t think he knew what the boy was wanting, at first. Shot off his mouth like he always did, apparently.”

Lestrade shrugs and looks away. “By the time I got there, the arsehole had Sherlock face first against the brick wall and was struggling with his trousers.”

“Oh, god,” John says faintly.

“Sherlock was fighting, I’ll give him that, but this kid was huge and wasn’t at all used to hearing ‘no.’ I shouted, and the boy was distracted enough for Sherlock to work an arm loose and elbow him in the ribs. Followed with a gorgeous right upper cut, hell of a shot. The boy went running with only a bloody nose for his trouble, and I went to check on Sherlock.

“He didn’t say a word. Black eye, big scrape down his cheek, bruises on his neck where the prick had grabbed him, but he just refastened his belt and nodded toward the street.”

John finds he’s holding his breath and lets it out slowly. “Then what happened?”

“I helped him pick up his books and took him to mine, gave him some antiseptic cleaner and a cold pack from the freezer for his eye. Never said a word about it, either of us. I gave him one of my scarves to cover his neck and told him he could keep it. Then I walked him to his front door and told him to wait for me in the morning. Walked with him to and from school every day after that, up until our last day of classes. I was a couple of years ahead, but he went to uni early, you know. Brilliant bastard.” Lestrade smiles. “He bought me a beautiful grey cashmere scarf for a graduation present, nicest thing I’d ever owned. I still have it.”

“That’s…” John finds he’s at a loss for words. “That’s quite...nice. Generous.” He's not sure if he means Sherlock's gift, or Lestrade's gesture. This isn't what he expected at all.

But Lestrade just nods. “He started at King’s, and I went on to Edinburgh, but we kept in touch, quick emails, drinks over the hols, you know how it is. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do after uni, and when I told him, he laughed and said he was in rather the same boat. I didn’t realize it was because half of the universities in Europe were in a bidding war over him. When he decided on Porton Down, his brother called and asked if I wanted a job. Knocked me sideways.”

“Huh. Did Sherlock put him up to it?”

“I thought that at first, but when I showed up first day, he was surprised to see me. Pleased, but surprised. I found out later that Mycroft had been aware of our relationship all along.”

“That’s…”

“Creepy, yeah,” Lestrade says with a grin. “You get used to it. Technically, I’m the operations director for the lab, but the lab is basically Sherlock, so…”

“You’re his keeper.”

“Pretty much.”

John nods. “You travel with him.”

“When he asks me to, yeah. Otherwise, I’ve got plenty to do at my own desk.”

“And you two never…”

Lestrade laughs. “No. No, I prefer birds. And anyway, it never came up. It just wasn’t that way between us. He was a lonely kid. I mean, he has his brother, right, but I don’t think they’re close. We were just friends, _are_ just friends. I’m not blind, though. He’s pretty, isn’t he?”

“Well, yeah. Yeah, he is.” John gives a rueful smile. “But bloody brilliant too.”

Lestrade chuckles. “We wouldn’t be in this spot if he weren’t, would we.” He checks his watch, and then stands and stretches. “Listen, do me a favor, and don’t tell him I told you the whole story, all right? He was mad enough his brother put it all together, back then.”

John stands as well. “Greg, what happened to the guy in the alley? Did you turn him in?”

“Oh. No. I wanted to, but Sherlock asked me not to. He didn’t want to have to deal with it. Boy was on the rugby team with me, though. He wasn’t very good, but his parents had donated equipment, so he got to see some playing time.” Lestrade purses his lips. “Rough game, rugby.”

“Oh, I know,” John says with a knowing smile. “You can get pretty messed up, even just in practice.”

“Exactly. You know how it is. And then if I remember correctly, he had the hardest time getting into uni. It was surprising, considering that he came from money.” Lestrade rolls his eyes. “I’m sure Mycroft had nothing to do with that, though.”

John impulsively offers his hand. “I like you, I think,” he says, and Greg, surprised, slowly smiles and takes it.

“He said you taught him to shoot,” Greg says. “I like you, too.”

Jones peeks his head around the corner. “Ten minutes, gentlemen. The mixture should be ready. It’s time.”

Greg motions for John to lead the way.

Once the teams find their rhythm, distilling the solution into the steel barrels is a smooth process. They all work easily and efficiently, and before he knows it, Addison is signalling that the procedure is complete. At John’s direction, they grab a couple of samples for Sherlock to test, and then the teams head for the exit and out.

John stays behind, frowning as he surveys the production floor, and Lestrade comes back and joins him. “Something wrong?” he asks, taking in John’s concerned expression.

John shakes his head. “It’s just--it can’t be this easy. Can it?”

Greg shrugs. “Maybe just this once, it can. I think we’re all due, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” John stares a moment longer, and then the realization hits him. They’re close; it really is almost over. One target has been spared; thousands of people have been saved. He starts to laugh. “Christ. Yeah. Yeah, we’re bloody well due.” He takes a last look at the now innocent barrels, and turns to leave, giving Greg a grin and a solid clap on the shoulder. “Let’s go give Sherlock the good news, and then it’s time to load some boxes. We’ve got an appointment in Atlanta.”

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to skip the story, just know that Lestrade is telling John how he originally met Sherlock, back when they were kids. Stop reading at "What did Sherlock tell you?" (Toward the end of the chapter), and you can tune back in at "John impulsively offers his hand," 19 paragraph breaks later.
> 
> As always, eternal gratitude to 221bJen, for reading with both eyes and heart, and for being willing to tell me what works and what doesn't.


	22. 9:00PM to 10:00PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle reader, a reminder that '24' MADE SHIT UP ALL THE TIME. I'm only respecting the source material here. So, you know.
> 
> -

Sherlock lifts his head from the microscope to find John standing close by, looking hopeful and excited. “So, what’s the word? Did it work?”

He frowns and looks back down at the slide. “Yes. It definitely worked. The weapon has been neutralized. Only…”

From the corner of his eye, he sees John’s wide smile fade. “What? Did we do something wrong?”

“No, your efforts were highly effective. There’s something else, though. Tell me, where were these samples collected?”

“Where? From the barrels on the production floor, of course. What are you…”

Sherlock shakes his head impatiently. “Of course, but where on the floor? Which barrels?”

“Oh.” John looks away, frowning in concentration. “Jones’s sample was from the first barrel inside the door. Addison collected his--three rows over, I think? He was working on that side of the room, so, yeah.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock taps his fingers on the bench as he thinks. “The two samples are different from each other. The neutralization worked in both cases, but they must have changed something along the way. Were the barrels marked in any way? Production dates, any kind of code…”

John cocks a brow in Addison’s direction. “Yes, sir,” Addison says. “No dates, though. Just sequential numbers.”

Sherlock nods. “There’s probably a chart somewhere, but that’s good enough for our purposes. Did you get the numbers?”

Addison looks abashed. “No, sir, but I can tell you that the numbers were higher closer to the door.”

“Ah. That’s good enough, then. Well done.”  Sherlock turns back to the microscope, but doesn’t miss the approving glance that John aims in Addison’s direction. John is smiling and seems...looser somehow. More at ease. Lighter. Mission success must agree with him. 

Then Lestrade comes into the room, and John’s smile grows just a bit wider. Lestrade smiles back at him and--oh. Sherlock feels his stomach drop.

“All packed up, John,” Greg says. “Ready when you give the word.” He turns to Sherlock. “How’s it looking in here?”

John nods in Sherlock’s direction. “Sounds like the procedure worked, but…”

Sherlock glances between them once more, and then turns back to the bench. “I found a difference between the samples.” There’s a glass-fronted cabinet across the lab, and he can see reflections of John and Lestrade exchange concerned looks behind his back. He  _ feels _ that glance as much as he feels the burning of the bullet wound in his shoulder. Fifteen minutes. Lestrade and John had spent fifteen minutes together, but it had been enough, apparently. God, he should have seen this coming. Lestrade is physically attractive; Sherlock recognizes this as empirical fact, even if it carries no real weight with him. But John is more than attractive. In fact, John...John is...

To his horror, he feels tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. “I have to figure this out. I need five minutes,” he forces out. “Alone.”

He sees that glance again, and then a private nod as John slides closer and Lestrade moves toward the door. “All right then, five minutes, but then we have to get going. If you need me, I’ll be out at that table by the lifts, helping Molly with the facility search. Okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock says quickly, and John gives him a reassuring smile as he follows Lestrade out the door. Sherlock’s heart is pounding, but he takes a deep breath and with some effort, clears his mind. He’d like to visit the kitchen of his mind palace; he usually stores strong emotions in the deep freezer, but he doesn’t have the time. He’ll have to make do. He runs into the foyer and stops to quickly roll up his turbulent feelings in a towel, before shoving them into the coat closet. He closes the door firmly and opens his eyes. It’s time to concentrate on the slides in the rack in front of him. The work. He will always have the work. And this time, lives are on the line.

\---

Sherlock slips his labcoat into his backpack and steps out into the hallway four minutes and thirty seconds later, eyes dry and newly calm. John is leaning over Molly’s shoulder, both of them staring at the screen of her laptop, and Lestrade is nowhere to be seen. Sherlock stops a few feet away, and John gives him an inquiring look. “I’ve got it,” Sherlock says, careful to sound composed and confident. “At least the chemistry part of it.”

John straightens. “Is it critical to the next phase of the mission?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Important, maybe, but not critical.” He nods toward the laptop. “Did you find the facility?”

Molly shrugs. “I’ve got a search program running, and it’s compiling a list. But we’re working on something else.” She motions toward the screen. “I had a thought a few minutes ago. This used to be a prison, right? Well, most prisons have automatic video monitoring. Every camera takes a picture every minute or so, just regular surveillance. The images are set to save to some DVRs in a closet somewhere, and the staff can access the images if they ever need to see who’s been where, but otherwise, they usually aren’t monitored. The systems don’t take much electricity, and a lot of times they’re set up with alternative sources of power in case the main power is lost; you know, batteries, solar, that kind of thing.”

“I saw solar panels on the roof when we were coming in,” Sherlock says, and pointedly ignores John’s admiring glance.

“Right,” Molly says. “I saw them, too. So I got to wondering if it they had that kind of system here, and if it been disabled when the prison was abandoned.”

“Skipping to the end: they did, and it wasn’t,” John says. “Molly hacked the feed, and we’ve been...” John’s voice trails off, and he and Molly both stare at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock’s head is still swimming with formulas, and he is still as exhausted as he’s ever been. It takes a moment for the implication to sink though. “There was a camera in my cell.”

“Yup. I scanned all the footage from your--oh, I’m sorry,” Molly finishes with dismay, as Sherlock closes his eyes and braces one hand against the wall. “Are you all right? I didn’t think...”

The interrogation--no, his  _ torture  _ was  _ filmed, _ and John and Molly have seen it. He’s not sure what he’s feeling right now, but he wishes he had seen this coming. There’s only so much room in that coat closet. The work, he thinks, clutching at the words. It’s all a puzzle, and puzzles can be solved. “It’s fine, Molly,” Sherlock manages to answer, eyes still closed. “I’m just tired. Go on.”

He hears the shuffle of feet drawing closer; John’s feet, he realizes, and it’s John’s voice he hears next. “Listen. We fast forwarded through--you know.” Sherlock sighs and opens his eyes just enough to see John’s face inches away, his expression kind but intent. “But it was--you were amazing.  _ Strong. _ That woman--”

Sherlock closes his eyes again and shakes his head. It’s too soon. He hasn’t had time to see to the repairs in the basement yet, and obviously won’t for some time. Focus. John and Molly aren’t cruel; this is  _ their  _ work, and they're asking for his help. “What do you need?”

Molly clears her throat. “There were several men who came into your room, or down that hallway, at least. Orderlies, the cleaning crew, a couple of guards. We’ve got pictures of all of them. Can you tell us if any of these were Moran’s boss? I’m really sorry,” she says again, and he can tell she means it. “I wish I didn’t have to ask.”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock murmurs, and musters the tiniest of smiles for her. Even through his pain--he’s a scientist, he’ll call it what it is, if only to himself--he can recognize a imaginative bit of research. When they’re through this, he should invite her to his lab, he thinks briefly. He likes spending time with creative types.

But that will have to be later. Now, Sherlock pushes to standing and steps carefully around John to see the screen of the laptop. He scans the pictures quickly, but the face is unmistakable. “That one,” he says, pointing to the picture in the upper left corner. “Brown hair, brown eyes, slender frame, about five foot, eight inches tall. Irish accent.” He leans in to get a better view, but the picture isn’t clear, and the angle isn’t direct. Still, it's obviously him. “That bastard stole my brownie,” Sherlock says under his breath. 

“Sorry, what?” John asks behind him. 

“Doesn’t matter. That’s him.” Sherlock glances at Molly. “Can you get his name?”

“We can, yes,” she says with certainty. “But I’m going to have to upload the picture to Mycroft and have him run the search through the mainframe. I can’t spare the bandwidth right now.”

John’s mobile phone chirps, and he pulls it out and checks the screen. “Do it,” he says to Molly. “Lestrade says everything is loaded and the chopper is ready. Can you work on the go?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, typing quickly. “CTU gave us priority satellite access. I’m as good in the air as I am here. Let me just get this sent, and we can be off.”

“Good.” John turns to Sherlock. “We’ve got a minute while she does that. Tell me about the samples.”

Sherlock pulls a couple of index cards from his pocket and hands them over. John scans them quickly. “They were experimenting with the weapon components. The barrels with the later numbers were made using more basic forms of two major compounds.”

“I don’t follow,” John says, as he hands the cards back over. “Would that heighten the effect? Or were they trying to come up with ways to cancel out the antidote?”

“I don’t really think either is true. These changes wouldn’t make any difference in a human body. I think it was more about stability, keeping the formula viable longer out in the wild, if you will.” Sherlock stares down at the cards, even though he has the contents memorized. ”It wouldn’t matter in a municipal water system, though,” he muses.

“Why not?”

“Well, for this to make a difference, the water would have to be more acidic. The pH of Texas tap water runs, in general, on the basic side of neutral: 7.8, 7.9, around there somewhere. It’s surprisingly standardized for such a big area.”

“Wait, you know that?” John interrupts. 

“Google.” Sherlock taps the pocket that holds his phone. “The newer formula would still work with that pH, but if they wanted the benefit of the upgrade, they’d need something closer to true neutral. You’d need something closer to 7.3, maybe even 7.2.”

“Do you think they were planning to bring in distilled water?” John frowns. “I didn’t see any down there.”

Sherlock shrugs. “The pH of distilled water is 7.0. I think that’s  _ too _ neutral. They must have had another source in mind.”

“Huh.” John scratches his head. “Do you think any of this really matters?”

“Well, obviously it did to them,” Sherlock answers. “But our formula worked on both forms, so for our purposes, maybe not. I’ll just keep it in mind.”

John nods. “All right. Let’s head out. Do you have your sling? Your arm has must be hurting, and the walk to the chopper isn’t going to help.” 

Sherlock pulls the roll of fabric from his pocket. “Yes, Mummy.”

“Good boy.” John gives him a quick grin. “Molly? You good?”

Molly stands, closing her computer as she rises. “Let’s go.”

The three of them set out for the landing pad. John was right: Sherlock’s arm is aching, and his shoulder is on fire. There’s a intermittent tremor in his hand, but he’s fairly sure that’s just fatigue. He can tell that John is pacing himself, in deference to Sherlock’s apparently exhaustion, but the landing pad is still on the other side of the building. It’s quite a walk to get there from the lifts, and with all the twists and turns, he’s glad for the stability of the sling. John’s thoughtfulness in suggesting it gives Sherlock a little warm glow in his chest, until he remembers that Lestrade will be waiting in the helicopter.

“Do we still have that tablet?” he asks brusquely.

Beside him, Molly nods. “Yeah, it should be in John’s bag in the chopper.”

“Can you link me through your computer to the satellite? I want to help with the search.”

“You bet. Won’t take a minute. I’ll be glad for the help.”

They finally reach the last staircase and burst through the door at the top to find the helicopter waiting and Jones, Addison, and Lestrade already strapped in. They clamber in, and Sherlock collapses gracelessly into the forward facing window seat. Molly takes the seat across from him and next to Lestrade, leaving John to take the seat at Sherlock’s side. The rotors come to life. Sherlock starts to struggle with the sling, but John shakes his head and reaches over to fasten the harnesses carefully into place. He slips the headphones over Sherlock’s ears and gives him a cheesy thumbs up before slipping back into the chair next to him. 

John puts his own headphones on and adjusts the microphone. “Pilots, how long to Atlanta?”

Addison answers. “In this thing? Maybe three hours. But we’ve gotten word that the U.S. is loaning us their fastest jet. We’re picking it up just outside Oklahoma City. All told, if Jonesy’s at his best, should be able to get you there in an hour or so, sir.”

John lifts a sardonic eyebrow. “And  _ is _ Jonesy at his best?” he intones.

Jones nods, still flipping switches with one hand, and holds up a Red Bull with the other. “Armed and ready, sir,” he says drily into the mic.

“Good man,” John says, laughing, and the helicopter lifts into the air.

Molly pulls out the tablet, and hands it over to Sherlock. She flips the switch on her microphone to the private setting and motions to the three of them to do the same. “Check it out. Mycroft got a hit on the image already,” she says, pointing to the tablet.

Sherlock scans it briefly. “James Moriarty,” he says, more to himself than the others. The name sits uncomfortably on his tongue. He flips through the record quickly--a few scrapes with the law when younger, a little time in jail, some suggestion of a relationship with organized crime, and then--several years of silence. Interesting. “This says his current location is unknown. Is that true?”

“So far,” Molly answers. “Mycroft’s checking all the U.S. borders, but there’s a huge backlog of records to go through. It’s a mess.”

“Moran told us he might be headed for a beach in Mexico,” John muses, frowning at the image on the screen. “Not sure if he meant it or not.”

“I’ll pass that on to Mycroft,” Molly says. “Right now, we’ve got bigger fish to fry. We need a plan.” She pulls out her laptop. “It has occurred to me that we could just head to the CDC and use their resources.”

“We could…” John says thoughtfully. “But I think it makes sense to try to narrow the search down as much as we can ahead of time.”

Molly nods in agreement. “Let me show you what I’ve come up with.”

John, Lestrade and Molly all huddle over the laptop. Sherlock tries to follow the conversation, but he’s so tired, and when he leans to the side, the window feels cool against his forehead. Shutting out the vibration, he closes his eyes for just a moment, and lets the helicopter slip away.

The entry hall of the mind palace is still fairly neat and orderly. There’s a pounding from inside the coat closet, a faint rattling of the door handle, the cadence of John’s speech through the thick wood. After a moment’s thought, he takes a second to drag an armchair over in front of the door. He doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought of Lestrade and John together right now; he’ll deal with that mess later. The rest of the house is quiet, but there’s a light flickering at the end of the hallway. He takes a few steps down the hall, and realizes that it’s coming from the screening room. It’s been some time since he was in there, but he remembers it as nice and cool, with plenty of comfortable chairs. It’s as good a place to rest as any.

He sits and watches the screen for a few minutes. It’s a sports highlights show, and Sherlock can barely make sense of it. This happens sometimes, when he’s been working too long and is overtired: his brain will start presenting random, inconsequential entertainment. Television dramas, lighthearted musicals, sports matches. He’s come to see it as a warning of impending overload, and generally accepts the invitation to wind down.

This, though...the color is too bright, and the images too sharp. He finds he can’t look away. The reports flip through baseball highlights, tense moment after tense moment from different games, and then the show turns to--fishing? Is that even a sport? He sees jocular fishermen soundlessly (thank god) pulling enormous fish into their boats and beaming at the camera. It doesn’t make any sense, but he can’t escape the feeling that it’s significant.

The reel ends, and in the real world, he opens his eyes. He is surprised to find that somehow the four of them are now seated in a private military jet; he didn’t feel the helicopter landing or the plane’s takeoff at all. Lestrade and Molly are seated together across the aisle, talking earnestly, with the laptop in front of them on a pulldown tray. John is in the row directly in front of him, turned around on his knees and resting his elbows along the seatback, watching him closely.

“Hello, there,” John murmurs, as Sherlock blinks and starts to look around. “You were completely out of it by the time the chopper landed. Lestrade and I had to drag you up the stairs. I was half expecting you to start snoring any moment.”

Sherlock rubs his stiff neck. “I wasn’t really asleep, I don’t think. I was in the mind palace. How long was I--”

John smiles at him. “We’ve been on the jet maybe half an hour or so. There’s tea, if you want it.” John waggles an empty white cup at him. “Made it myself, so I’m fairly certain it’s not drugged.”

“Christ, yes,” Sherlock says, yawning. He nods at Molly and Lestrade. “Any luck?”

“Yes and no,” John says, as he slips into the small galley. He reappears seconds later with a cup of very dark tea, which Sherlock accepts gratefully. “They’ve culled the list down to about ten or so places. I’m in favor of a medical school, or a University lab, somewhere with some room for storage, cheap labor, and where a large delivery of chemicals like that might pass unnoted.”

Lestrade looks up and catches Sherlock’s eye. “All right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock lifts his cup. “Getting better.” He takes a sip and turns his attention back to John. “Go on.”

John nods. He starts rattling off his other thoughts, and those of the rest of the team--locations near freeways, business parks, off site storage and remote settings--but Sherlock’s mind keeps drifting back to the mind palace video. There’s something there, damn it. 

“John, hang on a minute,” he says finally, holding up a hand. John stills and looks at him with curiosity. The question, when it comes, surprises them both. “Do you think Moriarty is really a baseball fan?”

John stares at him for several seconds. “Why would you--are you okay?”

Sherlock waves off the question. Things are beginning to click, he can feel it. It’s not clear yet, but he can sense he’s on the right track. “There’s a thing, right? A--rivalry? Chicago and the Cardinals of...somewhere?”

“St. Louis,” Lestrade supplies. He’s obviously been listening in. “The Chicago Cubs and the St. Louis Cardinals. But how the hell would you know about that?”

Sherlock waves dismissively. “I’ve no idea. Someone at the lab must have said something once.” He turns back to John. “Do you remember what Moran said? You asked him why Moriarty would have chosen Chicago, and he said…”

“‘The boss is a Cardinals fan,’” John recites. “I assumed he was just being a smartarse, so I didn’t think anything of it. Why? Do you think it’s important?”

“Yes, but I don’t know why,” Sherlock murmurs, and rubs his eyes. “They made me go to a baseball game where I first got here, you know. I mean, when I started at Berkeley. The Giants versus--somebody. I don’t recall.”

John looks mystified. “Yeah, I’ve been to the stadium. It’s a nice field, as they go.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock muses. “Baseball is a terrible game, though. Took bloody forever.”

John hums, still watching him closely. “Well, it’s an acquired taste.”

“As you say.” Sherlock closes his eyes and slips back into the mind palace. The video is playing still, and now the sound is on. He watches more closely. The man on the screen is extolling the virtues of freshwater fishing, but his description sounds about as boring as...oh.  _ Oh. _

_ Freshwater _ fishing.

His eyes pop open. “Is there a map of Atlanta I can look at? Right now?”

“Tablet’s right here,” Lestrade says, and hands it over. “Think you’re onto something?” 

“Maybe.” Sherlock pulls up a map of the city. He stares at it, looking for...there. The Chattahoochee River trails through the city, winding around many of the wealthier suburbs. That’s the place to start. He starts tapping at the screen with urgency, and after a couple of minutes, he lets out a brief but enthusiastic bark of victory. He looks up to see Lestrade, Molly, and John all staring at him with various expressions of concern. 

He spreads his fingers across the screen to enlarge the image and turns the tablet around. “This is the production site, I’d bet on it,” he announces, and offers the tablet to John.

“Saint Fintan’s University,” John reads, and then looks up. “It’s not even on our list. How do you know?”

Sherlock is too excited to be exasperated. “It’s a small university. Not much attention gets paid to it, except locally. But the chemistry teams have won prestigious competitions several times in the past few years, and they’ve recently managed to land a couple of decent professors. The program is well respected. They have decent labs, and plenty of skilled, enthusiastic workers who have to work as a requirement of their financial aid.”

“There are lots of good chemistry programs in the city, though,” Molly says skeptically. “Why is this one so different?”

“Because this university also has an historically mediocre baseball team, and yet, an anonymous donor just built them a brand new stadium. It’s not set to open until next season, but construction is mostly complete. Look,” Sherlock says, turning the tablet around and tapping on another tab. “This is the latest press release. And look here,” he says, bringing up another picture. “There’s an enormous gymnasium attached, part of a new sports complex. It’s within sight of the Chemistry building. Do you see that fence? It’s incredibly tall, and that’s barbed wire along the top. So think about it. This is a tiny university, with a barely average baseball team, that’s just been handed millions of dollars worth of property they’ll barely know what to do with, that no one can currently access. Why?”

Molly gives him a begrudging nod. “All right, I can see your point, but...

“And there’s another thing. The school is built adjacent to the Chattahoochee River, and according to the United States Geological Survey website, that area of the river enjoys a pH of 7.2.” He looks up at John. “They weren’t changing the formula to be more efficient, they were changing it out of necessity. They wanted to use river water. One less expense to explain away.”

John shakes his head. “I don’t know, Sherlock. It still all seems like a reach.”

This time, Sherlock  _ does _ roll his eyes. “Come on, John. Have you ever heard of St Fintan? There are two, actually, and they are both Irish as  _ hell." _ He leans back and spreads his hands. “What lead do you have that’s as promising?”

John, Molly, and Greg exchange a look. “Nothing,” Lestrade admits at last. “It may all be circumstantial, but it’s better than what the rest of us have come up with.”

John breaks into a grin. “What the hell, it’s worth a shot. We can call Mycroft and have him send teams onto the other properties. We’ll check this one out ourselves.”

Molly starts typing on her laptop. “I’ve got real time images,” she says after a few seconds. “There no runway near there, but we could land at Robins Air Force Base and get a high speed chopper onto the campus. There are plenty of places to touch down.”

“Great, give the coordinates to Jones. We must be almost to Atlanta.” John leans forward over the seats and speaks directly to Sherlock in a lower voice. “Listen, tell me the truth. Are you up for this?”

Sherlock gives him a thin smiles and drains his cup. “I will be, after some more tea.” 

John nods. “Of course. Let me…”

“No, I’ve got it.” Sherlock unhooks his seatbelt and stands and stretches. The pain in his shoulder is down to a moderate ache. Adrenaline, he supposes. Endorphins. He moves slowly into the small galley and starts to reach for the teapot.

John steps in behind him, reaching around him for the container, and Sherlock turns around in surprise to face him. They’re pressed closely together in the tiny space. John fills his cup and then replaces the pot, searching his face all the while. “That was amazing back there,” he says sincerely. “I have no idea how you’re still standing, let alone still thinking, but then you come up with something like  _ that. _ Just--fantastic.”

“Well...thank you.” Sherlock takes a deep breath and releases it through pursed lips, ruffling his own fringe. “I  _ think  _ I’m right, but honestly, it could all be so much bullshit. Lestrade is correct; much of this is conjecture. I could be wasting everyone’s time, but we won’t know until we get there.”

John shakes his head. “I think you need to give yourself a break. You’re better at this than you know.”

“Am I? I don’t think so. This is all your territory, John. If it isn’t already obvious, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Well, if I were a betting man...” John smiles up at him, and gives him a wink. His eyes are the most surprising blue, Sherlock thinks, bright even now in the dimly lit galley. The lines around his eyes make it look like his entire face is smiling. He’s extraordinary, and it makes Sherlock’s chest ache just a bit to be so close to something so beautiful.

“It’s all right, you know,” Sherlock whispers, on impulse. “Lestrade’s a good man, one of the best. Even Mycroft thinks so. You’re right to consider it.”

John’s brow creases in confusion. “Greg?” he asks, vaguely. “What about him?”

Sherlock gives a tiny shake of his head. “You don’t have to--”

His speech stutters to a halt as John’s gaze drops to Sherlock’s mouth. They’re just inches apart now. John’s tongue peeks out to wet his lips, and Sherlock could swear he feels that tiny bit of pressure on his own lips. He feels the warmth of John’s body, and he can  _ smell _ him, a mix of leather jacket and strong tea that is almost intoxicating in this small space. But Lestrade is a friend, the truest one he’s ever had. He has to be strong.

Still, it’s hard to speak. “I--I know you two talked when you were down at the production floor.”

“Oh,” John sighs, and Sherlock mentally braces himself. “I didn’t know you knew about that.” John looks up, meeting his eyes again, face now full of the concern Sherlock has seen so often today. “You’re not angry, are you?”

Sherlock feels his throat closing, and he briefly wonders if he could die of asphyxiation right here and now, but of course, his body won’t be so kind. “Of course not,” he manages to whisper. “Why would I be?”

“Good,” John says, with a sigh of apparent relief. “He didn’t tell me much, you know. I just--I wanted to know more about you, and he’s known you forever. I asked him how you met, and he told me about how you’d walk to school together, and the scarf you’d given him, and how Mycroft had...” 

Sherlock blinks once, and then two more times in quick succession, completely and utterly baffled. “Wait, what?” 

They stare at each other a long moment, and then Sherlock sees a flash of realization cross John’s face. “Oh,” John breathes, and then a twinkle comes to his eyes. “Sherlock, did you think I was interested in Greg?”

“Well...yes. Aren’t you?” Sherlock asks, confused. “I saw you both smiling, and you seemed so…”

“For a brilliant man,” John interrupts, “you’re a bloody idiot.”

And this time, it’s John who kisses  _ him. _

\--- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank Kedgeree11 enough for her help with this chapter. She gracefully offered to beta while 221bJen is off at Dragon Con. It's a difficult thing to step back in near the end of a multi-chapter WIP, and I am very grateful. This chapter is far better for her attentions.
> 
> For the record, all the pH stuff is true. The USGS website is surprisingly interesting and easy to navigate. There really is a Cubs-Cards rivalry, too. I made up all that prison surveillance stuff, though. 
> 
> Thank all of you for reading, and for sticking with this weird story. Only two more hours until midnight! The end is in sight!


	23. 10:00PM to 11:00PM

John melts into Sherlock’s lips. Nothing has ever felt so good.

The taste of him, Christ. Tea on his tongue, just a hint of sugar, and the sweetness that is Sherlock himself: ambrosia. But it’s the  _ feel _ of the lips that’s killing him, so soft, despite being a bit dry, and  _ expressive, _ bloody hell…

Just as the doctor in him thinks it’s time to pull back, for both of them to take a breath, he feels Sherlock’s knees start to give. John breaks away and braces him with his body, keeping him upright in the tight space. “Are you okay?” John asks, laughing just a little as he helps Sherlock lean back against the bulkhead.

Sherlock nods, his expression an embarrassed version of annoyed. “Just a bit lightheaded.”

“Ah,” John murmurs. “Well, I’d really like to take credit for that, but you did lose a lot of blood today.”

“No, by all means, take credit. Take all the credit you want,” Sherlock breathes, leaning in for another kiss.

Just as their lips meet, they’re interrupted by Addison’s voice on the overhead speaker. “We’re preparing to land. Please secure the cabin and take your seats.” John can feel Sherlock’s cheeks curve with amusement. After one last quick, delicious press, John regretfully leans back just enough to ease them apart.

“We really do seem to have the most atrocious timing, don’t we?” he asks softly, and Sherlock huffs a tiny laugh, just close enough now for John to feel it as a gentle brush against his own face. 

“You shouldn’t judge us too harshly. This hasn’t exactly been a typical day.”

“True,” John agrees. He reaches a finger up and trails it gently over the tip of Sherlock’s nose. “What do you say we go get this over with…”

“So you can get me into bed?” Sherlock says, and follows it immediately with an enormous yawn. He looks completely disgruntled before his mouth is even closed. It's adorable.

“Yeah, straight to bed with you, but to sleep, I think.” John kisses him gently on the forehead. “For starters, anyway.”

“But tea first,” protests Sherlock sleepily. “Remember, you promised me tea.”

“Hey, I made tea,” John laughs, indicating the steel pot.

“No, John,” Sherlock says solemnly. “That was not tea. I appreciate your effort, but one must have standards. That, I regret to say, was shit.”

“Sweet talker,” John says with a grin, and steps sideways to allow him to leave. “Go sit down. I’ll secure the galley.”

The landing is smooth and uneventful, though John is too busy focusing on the warmth of Sherlock’s hand in his to fully appreciate it. It’s far less stressful than their last landing in a small plane, in any case, and John nods gratefully to Jones and Addison on his way past the cockpit.

It takes only a few minutes to unload the cargo hold and load the boxes into the chopper, a feat which John acknowledges is almost entirely due to Lestrade’s skill at organization. St. Fintan’s is a quick flight away. From the air, the campus looks small, but well landscaped and neatly maintained. They touch down in a smooth, neatly lined parking lot not far from the Chemistry building, and a quick hike across level ground finds them standing in front of the fence surrounding the new sports complex.

Greg examines the lock at the gate. “It’s electronic,” he says, scowling. “Requires a code along with a key. We can try to break the code, but there’s an alarm on it. Someone will know if we get it wrong.”

Jones shines a bright flashlight beam through the fence. “There’s a regular padlock there, sir,” he says, pointing to a small gate set off to the side. “Looks like it’d be easy to cut through. It’s on the wrong side of the fence, though.”

“Probably for the daytime security guard,” John observes. “He can let people in and out without having to know the code, and then management can lock everyone out at night.”

“That’s rather neat,” Sherlock says. “It’s also quite inconvenient.”

“Oh, for fuck’s…” Molly mutters. “Hold this.” She hands her laptop bag to Lestrade, and before John realizes it, she’s scaling the fence. There’s a tense moment when she reaches the top, but she manages to plant one foot between two coils of barbed wire and launches herself up and over. She lands neatly on the other side, wincing just a little as she shakes it off.

John looks around quickly; all the men on the team are staring at her through the fence, open mouthed. “What?” she says defensively. “I went to a bloody girls’ school, you know. They locked us in at night. It’s not the first fence I ever had to climb.” She nods at Addison. “You’ve got bolt cutters in that tool kit, yeah?”

Addison jumps and looks down at the box at his feet, and then back at Molly with newfound respect. “Yes, ma’am.” He opens the toolbox and hands the cutters through a narrow opening in the fence. “Here you go, ma’am. Mind your hands, now.”

Molly rolls her eyes and makes quick work of the lock’s shackle, and the rest of the team piles through the now-open gate. Greg stops to hand her the laptop and murmurs a few words close to her ear. John can’t hear what he says, but Molly’s quick grin and the teasing arch of her eyebrow tells him all he needs to know.

Sherlock steps up beside him. “If you’re thinking I was a fool, you’re right,” he says quietly.

John glances behind them to make sure no one is looking before giving Sherlock a quick pat on the arse. “Not a fool, just distracted,” he answers, in the same low tone. “But you’re kind of sexy when you’re jealous.” With a wink, he walks over to where Jones and Addison are stacking the boxes, calling Molly and Greg over to join them. Sherlock follows, the hint of a smile still lingering on his lips.

“All right,” John says to the group. “We’re looking for two things: a shit ton of steel barrels, and an ice machine.” He looks around at the lights hanging off the fence and takes note of the hum of air conditioning units, running late in the Georgia heat. “There’s power, at least, so that’s something.” He nods to Molly, who opens her bag and brings out a case of small handheld radios.

“I grabbed these off the chopper,” she says, as she hands the radios around. “I didn’t have time to pull full tech for all of us, but these are better than nothing. They have two settings, one for close range, and one that covers a wider area. From my measurements, I think these will cover the entire sports complex on the broader setting, so we should all be able to stay in contact. The local one won’t have much of a range, but if we’re splitting up…” She lifts an eyebrow in John’s direction.

“Which we are,” John confirms.

Molly nods. “Then you should be able to stay in touch with your team, if you don’t get too far away from each other. I’d recommend you keep that in mind as you go. And be careful with these,” she says, frowning down at her own handset. “They aren’t the hardiest little things I’ve ever used.”

“Right, then,” John says. “There’s six of us, so that’s three teams of two each. Jones and Addison, take the gym. Greg, Molly--” John doesn’t miss Greg’s quick grin. “--take the offices. Sherlock and I will cover the stadium.  Keep an eye open for alarms and whatnot, but get in however you have to. Break a window, kick a door in, whatever, but do try to avoid making too much noise. Use your flashlights, and leave the lights off. Sherlock, tell us what we’re looking for.”

Sherlock pauses for a moment, obviously giving the situation serious thought. “Well, it gets hot here, but the temperature can fluctuate widely from day to night, so look for environments where the climates are stable; areas with air conditioning, deep underground tunnels, that kind of thing,” he says. “Obviously, don’t waste a single minute outside. Any windows in a storage area will most likely be covered, to help keep the sun out, so watch for that. Focus on basements, and check for sub-basements, too. Unmarked staircases that go downward, that kind of thing. Secret passages. This construction has been going on for over a year, according to the university website, so they’ve had plenty of time to stockpile. There might not be room in one place for it all, so we might be looking for multiple sites. Watch for notes on tables, maps, that kind of thing, anything that could give us an idea of where to look and shorten the search.”

“If you come across an ice machine, mark it, call it in, and keep searching,” John adds. “We’ve got bags for mixing the formula, once we find the barrels. Use your phones to set a grid, and be as organized as possible in your search. It will save all of us time. If you finish your assigned area, check in and we’ll send you to help somewhere else. All right, anything else?”

“One more thing,” Sherlock says quietly. “Don’t drink the water. Water fountains, hoses, just...don’t.”

Silence falls over the team, and John sees from the stricken looks on everyone’s faces that they’ve all been reminded what happened to the workers back at Texas. He himself had almost forgotten how much was at stake. “Right,” John says after a moment. “Roll out. And keep in touch.”

They separate, looking solemn but determined in various degrees.

\---

It’s only two minutes walk to the front of the new stadium. John and Sherlock check the front doors, not expecting to find them unlocked, but to their surprise, a single door is open. John hesitates, shining his flashlight into the darkness of the foyer, but everything is quiet and still. Finally, he exchanges a look with Sherlock, who shrugs. It is a construction site, after all; no doubt the fence was thought to be enough to keep unwanted visitors out. The door clangs shut behind them.

John has worked out on deserted sports fields and showered in empty locker rooms, but he’s never been in the hallways of an empty stadium before. It’s creepy as hell, and made worse by the fact that this stadium has yet to open. Everything has the sense of being not just unused, but unwanted, somehow the tragic opposite of haunted. The floors and the walls echo like they never thought they’d be given the chance to bounce a sound, and they’re eager to get it right. The cinderblock walls are freshly painted, and it’s all he can smell, with not even the faded scent of concession popcorn to distract from it. The signs point non-existent visitors in various directions; locker rooms, snack bars, luxury suites.

“Luxury suites? Plural?” Sherlock asks, walking up beside him. “Who the hell is going to rent a luxury suite at a school this small?”

John shrugs. “If you build it, they will come. Isn’t that the saying? Every school has alumni, and some alumni write checks. Maybe they’re planning to buy a team worthy of all this…” He waves at a mural of the school crest, painted in acrylics on the wall of the entryway. 

“Grandeur?” Sherlock asks drily.

“Enthusiasm, I was going to say.” 

“Ah.” Sherlock walks over to inspect the prominently placed but very empty trophy case. “One must admire hope when one encounters it in the wild.”

John arches an eyebrow his direction. “Now, don’t be a snob.” He walks over and holds the light up to illuminate the blueprint that’s framed and hung prominently by the front doors. “They do seem very proud of all this,” he muses, as he turns and indicates the map. “And it’s bigger than it looks. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

Sherlock hums. “You think we should split up.”

“I suppose.” It’s standard procedure, as long as there’s communication, but John hesitates.

Sherlock, of course, doesn’t miss it. “You’re...nervous? No. Worried. Oh.” A small sigh escapes him. “About me.”

John ducks his head and nods. “Well, yeah. A little. We’ve made light of it, but really, you’ve had a terrible day. I just want to be sure you’re okay, is all.”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is calm, and John can hear the smile in it. “It’s not  _ that _ big a building. I’ll go get started upstairs. You can do a quick check of the locker rooms, and then I’ll join you in the basement. All right? It won’t be but a few minutes.”

“And you’re sure you’re fine.”

“Absolutely. Anyway, this is all a wild goose chase, you know. I really think the barrels are in the gym. It’s the logical place. That’s where I’d have stored them, if it were me.

John rears back, a bit surprised. “Yeah? Why didn’t you say anything? We could have taken the gym.”

Sherlock shrugs. “We can’t have  _ all _ the fun," he says, deadpan. "It wouldn't be fair.”

John stares at him, then starts to laugh. “You idiot.”

“That’s better. Come on, let’s check the radios. We can stumble around here until Jones and Addison call for us and the real fun begins.” 

“Fine.” John flips a switch on the handset and lifts it to his mouth. “Teams, report.”

A crackle comes over the speaker. “...here, sir. Addison is at the north end of the building. Nothing so far.”

“You’re kind of breaking up, Jones,” John says with a frown.

“...pretty clear, John,” comes Molly’s voice, faint and thin. “It’s you that’s…”  More hisses and crackles, and John looks at Sherlock with concern. “...thick walls?”

“I guess so, Molly,” John says. “We’re going in. If you can hear this, I’ll let you know as soon as we’re clear.”

“...like it, but you need to get in there….fast, John. Over and out.”

John clicks off the static. “We’re basically out of touch with the rest of the team, then. That’s just perfect.”

“She’s right, it’s the walls.” Sherlock holds up his mobile. “No cell service, either. It’s not going to get any better once we move deeper into the building. Does the local channel on the radio work?”

John flips another switch, and the air fills with the painful whine of loud feedback. He winces and switches it off. “Nope.” He shakes his head. “I don’t like it, Sherlock. We need to get this done quickly and get out.”

“Well, with that in mind, as much as it pains me to admit it, right now it would take me forever to get up those stairs.  _ I’ll _ go downstairs and get started. You can check the main level and the suites upstairs.” He motions toward the plans. “They’ve got windows up there, so you should be able to get signal. Check in with the other teams when you’re done, and then come find me. We’ll either keep searching here, or go wherever they need us.”

John considers the suggestion, and reluctantly concludes it’s the best of their less-than-stellar options. “All right, fine.” He sets down his flashlight on end, the beam aimed straight up at the ceiling, and pulls out his gun. “But I want you to take this.”

Sherlock looks at him in shock. “What? No, you should--”

John holds up a hand. “Listen,” he interrupts. “Molly jumped that fence with no trouble, and the bloody front door was unlocked. If we run into a couple of kids bent on causing trouble, I can fight them off. I’m more concerned about you.”

“Well…all right,” Sherlock says reluctantly. “Just--be quick, all right? I’ll feel better when we’re back together.”

John steps close to him. “So will I, handsome,” he says with a wink, and he hands him the gun.

The staircase is behind a thick metal door. The air is stale, but there’s light, at least, weak shop lights obviously hung by the construction crew. John gives Sherlock an encouraging smile and nods toward the ramp heading downward. As Sherlock disappears, John turns and bounds up the stairs toward the next level. 

The “promenade level” looks like the main level of every school stadium John has ever visited or played in. It’s open to the field, which is currently dark as pitch. He dismisses the open air seating; there’s enough room for storage there, maybe, but no climate control. He peeks behind the concession stands and into the kitchens, but the spaces are small, and he finds nothing but dust and construction debris.

He runs back to the stairway and covers the two short, steep flights up to the luxury level.

He emerges into a quiet hallway, lit only by red exit signs. There’s carpet on the floor, inexpensive indoor/outdoor carpeting to be sure, but it’s nicer than the concrete floors he’s seen in the rest of the building. A few steps bring him to the lobby across from the lifts. On the wall opposite there’s another mural, this one a painting of a brown-robed saint with a staff in one hand, standing in a bright green field. John lifts his flashlight to investigate--this is meant to be St Fintan, obviously, and some art student must have--

He hears a noise from down the hallway, a light scrape, or maybe a shuffle. Instinctively, he clicks off his flashlight and moves a few feet to one side in the darkness, in case he's being targeted. He holds his breath and goes quiet, listening intently, but hears nothing more.

He counts to one hundred and eighty, but still nothing. Could be his imagination, he thinks, or hell, maybe it’s a mouse. God knows construction crews leave enough trash behind to support them.

He takes two steps, and stops again--still nothing. In fact, it seems almost too quiet, but that’s probably the carpet.

There are five doors leading off the foyer. Not a lot, but still ambitious, he thinks. He moves as silently as possible to the end of the hall, and opens the first door as quietly as he can.

It’s the President’s box, apparently; he’s just able to make out the letters of the plaque next to the door. The room has already been set up for entertaining--chairs, a thick rug, cocktail tables, a large video screen on one wall. Fundraising, John thinks, maybe player recruitment, all apparently well underway. This was probably the first room to be finished, he thinks, and he feels a touch of admiration; this administration is not wasting a moment.

The next door opens to a much smaller room. The press box, he realizes, as he looks out at the best view of the field. It puts him briefly in mind of a friend from uni who’d had TV and radio ambitions, and her tales of what went on under broadcast desks during commercial breaks. 

The third door opens into a suite that’s obviously still under construction. John turns on his flashlight and starts to shine it around. It’s a mess. There are wires hanging from the ceiling, carpets rolled and leaning against the near wall, and over by the dark, papered-over windows…

Steel barrels.

_ Holy shit. _

He starts to raise his radio to his mouth  _ (please god let me have signal) _ when he hears something behind him. Before he can turn to face around, a strong hand reaches around him to wrap around the wrist of the arm holding the radio, and from the other side, he feels the pressure of a sharp knife against his throat. He freezes.

“Hello, Captain Watson,” a smooth voice murmurs into his ear. The hand on his wrist tightens and twists, and his radio falls to the floor at his feet. “That’s better,” the voice says. “I didn’t expect you so soon, or I would have cleaned up around here first. My apologies.”

“None needed,” John rasps. “We should have called first.”

“Well, I can’t argue. That  _ would  _ have been the polite thing to do.” His wrist is released, and John is shoved to the floor. He starts to flip around and jump back up, but is blinded by the sudden flare of a lantern. When his vision clears, he sees a small, dark haired man in front of him, holding a gun now instead of a knife. He’s rumpled, his shirt smeared with dirt, with a five o’clock shadow and his hair standing up in tufts.

“Do you know who I am?” the man asks quietly.

Several possible answers race through John’s head. He’s not sure if he should play dumb and try to buy them all some time, but then it occurs to him that his best chance of keeping Sherlock safe is to make himself seem the bigger threat.

He lifts his chin and glares. “You’re James Moriarty.” A beat. “Do you know who  _ I _ am?”

Moriarty smiles down at him. “You are...a man at the wrong end of a gun, in a room filled to the literal rafters with a potent biological weapon.” He gestures to a kettle on the floor next to the door. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”

“Fuck off,” John growls. 

Moriarty lifts his eyebrows. “Suit yourself,” he says airily, and pulls up a chair in front of him. On the floor, John’s radio crackles for a moment, and then goes silent.

“Well, that won’t do,” Moriarty muses, bringing his foot down hard on the radio. John winces as the plastic crunches, and a few small parts fly around the room. “Reception is crap here anyway, you know,” Moriarty continues, as he perches on the chair. “I’m sure you’ve already figured that out.”

John glares at him.

“Not feeling very chatty? Don’t blame you, really. You’ve had rather a rough day, haven’t you? Coast to coast, and it’s a big country. I’m sure you’re really quite worn out. Tell me, where’s Dr. Holmes?”

The man peers down at John, obviously hoping that the change in topic will have caught him off guard, but John only shrugs. “Hospital, I’d assume,” he says lightly. “He did get shot a couple of hours ago.”

“Mm, yes he did, didn’t he.” Moriarty shakes his head sadly. “I’m so disappointed in her, you know. Irene. She’s run away again, but she’s never gone long. She’s fantastic at what she does, really first rate, but every once in a while, she gets taken in by a pretty face. That romantic heart of hers just gets in the way. I really should eat it.”

John blinks, and blinks again. “Sorry, did you say--”

“That I’d eat her heart? Yes, I did, but it’s a figure of speech. I mean, I  _ would _ carve it out of her screaming chest, but I wouldn’t actually…”

“Right, batshit crazy, got it.” John rolls his eyes, and Moriarty grins. 

“Oh, I do like you, Captain Watson. If I hadn’t already set my cap for sweet Sherlock, I’d almost be tempted to make a pass.”

_ "Pretty _ sure you’re not his type.”

“And you’d know?” Moriarty leans in closely, his eyes narrowing. John isn’t sure what he sees, but his face lights up with recognition. “Oh, I see,” he breathes. “And it’s reciprocated, isn’t it. You’re an  _ item. _ Well, now. That’s just lovely.” He stands and starts to pace. “You hadn’t met before today, I’m certain of that. His brother…” His voice trails off and he stops, tapping his mouth thoughtfully. “No, unconsummated, I’m sure of it,” he says at last. “He’s almost certainly here, though. Downstairs, I’d assume?”

_ No, _ John thinks. “Leave him alone,” he blurts. “He’s no threat to you.”

“No threat to me?” Moriarty asks incredulously. “I beg to differ,  _ mon capitaine. _ He is the  _ gravest _ threat to me. But he also represents my brightest future.” He pulls out a radio from his pocket, a larger, more solid version of the one that lies in pieces at his feet. He dials in a frequency, and holds it out. “Here. Call him.”

John doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. “Call him?”

“Yes. Keep him from coming up here.” Moriarty indicates his disheveled appearance. “I need to get ready first. He can’t see me like this.”

John slowly reaches up for the radio. It goes against everything in him to be doing what Moriarty tells him to do, but he doesn’t want Sherlock up here, either.

Even if he does have John’s gun.  _ Dammit. _

Moriarty sits back down and inches his chair a few inches closer to John, before motioning with the gun for John to go ahead.

John, watching him warily, pushes the button. “Sherlock? You there?”

There’s a crackle of static, and then, “John? How did you get your radio to work?”

Moriarty shakes his head and makes a “go on” gesture. “Not sure,” John says. “Maybe it’s the windows. Just thought I’d give it a try. How is it down there?”

“Grey. Disgusting. They haven’t even played a game here, and the locker room already smells. Why is that?”

Despite his tension, John snorts. “No idea. You don’t notice it so much when you’re part of it.”

“Well, it’s repulsive. Are you all right? Your voice sounds funny. Different.”

Moriarty put his hand up to his mouth to stifle his laughter. “No, I’m good,” John says quickly. “Just...distracted by all the grandeur up here. They really went all out.” 

“Sounds nice. Maybe I should come up there and check it out. I’m not finding anything down here.”

“No!” John nearly yells. Moriarty holds up a warning finger, and John takes a deep breath. “No, I’m almost done up here, actually,” he says more calmly. “I’ll be down there in a couple of minutes. Wait for me. Over and out.”

Moriarty reaches out for the radio and presses the power switch. “Well done, Captain,” he says, with sarcastic approval. “That should buy us some time. How long until he finally comes looking for you, do you think?”

John shrugs. “I couldn’t possibly guess.”

“Hmm, yes. Sherlock is unpredictable, isn’t he.” An edge of anger comes into Moriarty’s voice. “I can’t believe he wouldn’t give up that antidote. I guess it works, too, seeing as how he’s alive and all.”

“Well, he is good at what he does.”

“Mmm, yeah, I bet,” Moriarty says with a quirk of an eyebrow, and John finds himself flushing with anger. “It’s a shame, you know. You should have kept your hands to yourself, naughty boy. It just makes all this messier. You see…” Moriarty leans forward, and his face goes dark. “I need him. So I’m taking him.”

John fights the shiver that wants to run up his spine. “No, you’re not.”

“Want to bet?”

“Try me,” John says, deadly serious.

“Ugh!” Moriarty says, throwing up his hands, the gun briefly pointing up toward the ceiling. “I hate all this white knight crap, you have no idea. It’s sad. Look.” He leans in, suddenly intent. “I am the future. Ask your boyfriend about the second law of thermodynamics, and he’ll tell you. Entropy always increases.” He places a single hand on his own chest. “I, my friend, represent entropy.”

“You mean chaos.”

“Just so. I represent creativity. Change.  _ Passion," _ Moriarty says, as he licks his lips. “I’m irresistable. You? You’re stable. Conservative. Unchanging. You know what that all means?  _ Boring.”  _ Moriarty stops and tilts his head thoughtfully. “And of course, you’ll be dead soon, and that’s even more boring. But you see my point.”

John shakes his head. “You’ve got him all wrong. You’re painting him as this free spirit artist type, but that’s not who he is. He’s a  _ scientist." _

“He’s  _ ambitious.” _ Moriarty stares down at him. “Have you read his papers?” John looks away. “Well?” Moriarty demands. “Have you?”

“No,” John admits, begrudgingly.

“No,” Moriarty echoes mockingly. “Of course not. Well, he’s all over the place. Biology, chemistry, physics, medicine...I’ll be able to keep him entertained. He’ll have everything he wants.”

John nods. “Of course. Except freedom, I’m guessing.”

“Oh, my dear boy,” Moriarty says, shaking his head with a rueful expression. “When all that lies outside the gates are riots and plague, the ivory tower starts to look quite nice.” He stands, shaking his head dismissively. “You’ve chosen the wrong side.”

John sighs. “You’re not the first person to tell me that, you know.”

“Oh, I can imagine. You’re a fool that way, all valor and loyalty. You think it's all about honor, everyone doing their best. Well, let me tell you a little secret.” He looks around the room with exaggerated care, as if checking to see if they’re alone, and then leans in to continue in a stage whisper. “It’s very, very easy to seduce smart people. It’s so much fun! Are you listening? Here’s what you do. You figure out what they don’t have, what they’re secretly dying for, and then you give them  _ just enough _ of it to leave them hungry. It keeps them on edge, you see, and that keeps them  _ interested.” _

“Oh, for god’s…”John flops back on his elbows and looks up at the ceiling. He’s suddenly tired of this banter, of the insults and the madness. “And you’ve figured out what Sherlock wants, have you,” he says flatly.

Moriarty’s nostrils flare. “Of course I have, idiot. Haven’t you?”

“And what does he want?”

Moriarty holds a playful finger up to his lips, and tiptoes over to the door. “Well, here. Let’s ask him!” Moriarty says, throwing the door open wide.

Sherlock is standing on the other side, ghostly in the pale light.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back and thank you to 221bJen, and thanks again to Kedgeree, for her most excellent pinch-hitting in the last chapter.


	24. 11:00PM to Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the end of a very long day.

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees John’s posture stiffen. He hears the hitch of distress, the small near-whine John makes as he pushes up to sitting. Sherlock can’t risk looking over at him, though. He has to focus on Moriarty.

“Let him go, Moriarty,” Sherlock says evenly.

Moriarty offers up an exaggerated moue of disappointment. “But why? I so like it when people come to my parties. And anyway, we were just having the most fascinating conversation.”

Sherlock shakes his head slowly, keeping Moriarty centered in his vision. “You don’t need him. You don’t want him.” He steps into the room, spreading his arms wide. “But you _do_ want me.”

“Oh, Sherlock. That’s so vain, don’t you think? You probably think this plot is about you.” With a certain flamboyance, he indicates the barrels that are lined up neatly by the windows.

Sherlock gives him a sly smile, taking another step closer. “Am I wrong?”

Moriarty’s wide smile fades, replaced by something more genuine. “No,” he says. “I suppose in a way, you’re not.”

“Then I’m flattered.” In his peripheral vision, Sherlock sees John start to struggle to his feet. It’s not graceful, but he’s upright and poised for action in just a few seconds. Sherlock makes a staying motion with his hand, and without looking over, gives a tiny shake of his head. Moriarty takes a step back, keeping both of them in his sights, but he doesn’t look worried. He looks...intrigued. Better a curious Moriarty than a cornered one, Sherlock thinks, and hopes John is feeling the same.

“How did you know to come up?” Moriarty asks. “I figured we had another five or ten minutes at least.”

“Easy.” Sherlock shrugs, keeping his shoulders as loose as possible. “I found a recent scrape along the concrete of the loading dock that could have only been made by something metal. Someone must have dropped one of the barrels.”

Moriarty nods, looking impressed. “We did just get benches for the locker rooms delivered. Could have been one of those.”

“True, but those are usually made of aluminum, and all the heavy equipment--backstops, fencing--is already in place. This was a deep scrape, made by something heavy. There was a cart in the corner of the room, and upon close inspection, I found some carpet fibers caught around the wheels.” He gestures to the floor. “I could only think of one place in the building that would demonstrate such...grandeur.”

Sherlock feels John shoot him a look, but he can’t risk returning it.

“They are rather nice, aren’t they, the suites? The very peak of luxury, at least for this hellhole. I’m especially proud of the kitchens; they’ve got everything one could possibly need.” Moriarty waves toward the door in the dark corner behind him. “I’ve had flats that weren’t this nice. They lack only a bed and a butler.”

“Mm, yes. Could do with less of an industrial look, maybe,” Sherlock says, with a pointed glance at the barrels. “But overall, quite pleasant.”

“I’m glad you approve. John certainly wasn’t so gracious.”

Sherlock ignores the jab. “You should have introduced yourself before, when we met the first time, you know,” he continues pleasantly. “Look at all the time we wasted, when we could have been getting to know each other.”

“Oh, now you’re just teasing me,” Moriarty says, with a playful hint of petulance. “Surely you don’t expect me to believe you would have come along, when I barely managed to talk you into a cuppa.” He pauses and looks Sherlock up and down. “You’re looking well, by the way. Seems the antidote worked. Nicely done.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and makes a little half bow of acknowledgment. “Your man Moran made it a bit harder than it needed to be, but it came out all right in the end.”

“Oh. Moran.” Moriarty rolls his eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t waste any time saving that piece of shit.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock says, with a sad little frown. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Sherlock,” Moriarty tsks. “Really. I’m disappointed. Where are your priorities?”

“It was a _challenge,”_ Sherlock protests. “He was symptomatic. It changed the parameters of the reaction. I had to know if I could do it.”

“Well, I suppose I see your point,” Moriarty says begrudgingly, but a cloud crosses his face, and his hand tightens on the gun. “I suppose your brother has him now?”

Sherlock immediately realizes his mistake. “No, no,” he bluffs. “John shot him.” He pouts, throwing a mock angry glance in John’s direction. “I didn’t even get to collect samples first.”

Moriarty’s shoulders relax, and Sherlock fights the impulse to breathe a sigh of relief. “Aw. That was mean. But I have to admit, I’m glad to know he’s gone. Nice job, Johnny. Maybe I am picking the wrong boy.” He pretends to peek around to get a look at Sherlock’s backside. “Oops. Never mind, definitely not.” He leans back and crosses his arms, gun still in hand. “So the antidote still worked once he was showing signs of infection. Hmm. That’s really impressive.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I wouldn't bother doing something if I wasn't good at it.”

“Well, now. That’s what your boy here was just saying, though we were exploring a slightly different context. I have to admit that I don’t believe he has...shall we say, first hand experience as to what we were discussing.” Moriarty looks between them with a bit of a sneer. “Knowing Johnny boy as I do now, I can see why you might have been waiting for something better to come along, but I would have never imagined you were such a tease, leading him on like that. It’s naughty. I rather like it.”

Sherlock sees John draw in breath to protest, and again, holds out a low hand. “I don’t like wasting time with flirting, to be honest,” he says. “I tend to be more direct. The truth interests me more than games.”

“Told you,” John mutters.

“Hush, now, Captain, don’t interrupt the clever people.” Moriarty tilts his head thoughtfully. “The truth is what turns you on? Fine. Ask me one question. I trust you know not to be boring.”

“One question? Fine. Let me think.” Sherlock presses a finger to his lips and looks up at the ceiling in mock consideration. “Oh, I know. Here’s the question I’ve been wondering about all day. Ready?” He leans forward, suddenly serious. “Tell me what you’ll do for me if I come with you.”

“Ho!” Moriarty rears back, laughing at the ceiling in delighted surprise. “You are _bold_. I was expecting some sort of inquiry into my motives.”

“You only allowed me one question,” Sherlock says, with a hint of a smile. “I picked the one that matters most.”

“Now, you don’t expect me to believe you’ll really come with me, do you?” Moriarty asks, still chuckling.

Sherlock merely lifts an eyebrow, and waits.

Moriarty lets his laughter settle and wipes his eyes. “Interesting play, I’ll give you that.”

“I told you. I’m not playing,” Sherlock says with a hint of challenge, and lets his smile fade.

“Sherlock,” John says in a low, concerned voice. “Don’t you think--”

“You heard the man, John. Hush.” John slaps his mouth shut and looks affronted, but there’s a gleam in Moriarty’s eye as his gaze darts in John’s direction. “Well, Mr. Moriarty, I asked, and you said you’d answer. I’m waiting.”

Moriarty stares at John for a second longer, obviously enjoying his discomfort. “Very well,” he says finally, with a last sneer in John’s direction. “A direct question deserves a direct answer. You want the truth? Well, here it is: anything you want.”

“Really.” Sherlock manages to sound both intrigued and skeptical.

“Oh, yes,” Moriarty says, his voice warming. “You can’t imagine, Sherlock. You can’t possibly imagine. We’d have to run a for a while, put everyone off our trail, but then...I’ve got a lab in South America that puts Porton Down to shame. All. For. You. And that’s just the beginning.”

Sherlock nods and bites his lip thoughtfully. “I’ve been wanting to try something new. Something that isn’t…” He motions at the barrels. “Chemistry.”

“Told _you_ ,” Moriarty says to John in an snide undertone, before turning back to Sherlock. “Biology, maybe? Cloning? Wait, I know. Stem cells. There’s a beautiful underground market for those in South America, did you know? Or would you rather dig for fossils? Or would you…” He licks his lips and looks Sherlock up and down. “Maybe you just want to sit naked poolside and work on your tan.”

Sherlock allows himself to blush. “I believe we’re talking about a business deal, Mr. Moriarty.”

“You are, maybe,” Moriarty says with a leer.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but allows a hint of smile to peek back through. “Hmm,” he says thoughtfully. “I’d never considered South America.” He taps his chin as he appears to ponder. “Bit of a change in climate.”

“And would that be a bad thing?”

“Not necessarily, I suppose. Though I do tend to burn more than tan. I imagine this is a limited time offer?”

“I’m afraid so,” Moriarty says regretfully, nodding in John’s direction. “I’m under a bit of pressure here. You can have a couple of minutes to think it through, but no more.”

“Kind of you, but I don’t need them, I don’t think.” Sherlock straightens his shoulders and looks directly at Moriarty. _Here we go._ “I accept your offer.”

John gasps. “Sherlock. No.”

Sherlock ignores him. “Lock him up downstairs. Lock them all up, and we’ll run.”

John is shaking his head. “ _Sherlock_.”

“Oh, shut up!” Sherlock roars, turning to face him. “I’ve been running all over this bloody country all day, and for what? A pat on the back and a train ticket back to my sorry little flat in Salisbury?” He spits out the name of the town as if it’s a curse. “I work my arse off every day and I’ve got nothing to show for it. I’m tired. And then I see this?” He gestures wildly around the suite. “Look what he’s done! The imagination, the resources. Why wouldn’t I want to be part of it?”

He’s surprised to find he’s genuinely angry. There’s a lot of truth in what he’s saying.

John must hear it, too, because his face has flushed, and his nostrils are flaring. His eyes are flashing. He’s furious. “Because you know what he is!” John shouts back. “Look what he did to the workers in Texas. Do you know what he said about that woman, Irene? His interrogator? He said he wanted to _eat her heart._ She _worked_ for him."

“But he won’t hurt me. He needs me.” Sherlock takes a step closer until he’s looking down into John’s face from just inches away. His heart is racing, but he concentrates on keeping his expression cold. “You’re a soldier,” he says, lacing the word with disdain. “You want adventure. Maybe you don’t mind crashing planes and getting shot, but I do. I want to create. I want to imagine.” He takes a half-step closer and stares as hard as he can right into those stricken blue eyes. “I want to think. And if I can do that in a beachfront villa with someone on hand to mix me the perfect martini, then why shouldn’t I? After all, I’m a scientist. I’m not _good with a gun.”_

Sherlock can see the knowledge hit, see the meaning behind his words sink in. They stare at each other for a long moment, and then John swallows. He glances over in Moriarty’s direction, but Sherlock has managed to position himself so that Moriarty can’t see their faces.

 _It’s okay,_ Sherlock mouths, and John winces and shakes his head.

“It’s not that easy,” he says quietly. “It’s never easy, Sherlock. You need to be careful.”

Sherlock doesn’t look away. He knows what John is trying to say, but there’s nothing to be done for it. “Do you really think I don’t know that,” he says loudly, for Moriarty’s benefit, and gives John one long last blink.

Sherlock is surprised to see John’s eyes growing bright with unshed tears. “I’m sorry,” John mouths, his voice barely a whisper, and then looks away as Moriarty loudly clears his throat behind them.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. This is getting pathetic. Just accept it, already, Captain, you’ve lost. And I’ve won.”

Before either John or Sherlock can react, Moriarty slips around them and pulls John back against him, holding him in place with one arm tight across his chest. John claws at Moriarty’s wrist and starts to struggle, but Moriarty only laughs and reaches behind him with his other hand. Sherlock watches in horror as Moriarty clicks open a knife and brings it to John’s throat. John’s breath catches, and he freezes.

 _Shit._ Sherlock wasn’t expecting this. There’s only inches between the two of them; there’s no way he can make this shot.

“I believe we have a deal, Dr. Holmes,” Moriarty says calmly. “There’s just one last loose end to tie up. I can’t have your boyfriend here calling in your brother and coming after us in some twisted romantic gesture, after all, so as a condition of our agreement, give me the word.”

Sherlock is paralyzed, staring at the knife where it presses into John’s throat. “I don’t understand.”

“Sure you do. Give me the word,” he repeats, and smiles. “Tell me to kill him, and I will. And then we’ll run.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I--I don’t want to,” he manages. “Like I said, not a soldier.”

“No? I’m going to kill him anyway; he’s been such a bother. But if you want what I’m offering, you have to say the word. Tell me to kill him, and then we can go.”

Sherlock stands motionless, still unable to look away from the knife.

“Oh, wait! I thought of something else. It might sound silly, but actually, I’d like you to say my name first. Would you? For me? I want to hear it in that velvet voice. Mmm,” he hums, turning just enough to send the sound into John’s ear. John shudders. “Come on. I’ll let the others alone, even that Lestrade fellow. Just say it. Say ‘Jim, kill him,’ and we’ll be on our way, first class. You can pick our first stop.”

Sherlock works his jaw, and swallows once, and then again. “Switzerland,” he manages. “I want to go to Switzerland.”

“Ooh. Yes. Skier, are you? Me, too. Mm. You in jumpers and tight knit pants. Delicious.” His eyes blaze, and he presses the knife into John’s neck just enough to indent the skin. “Say it, darling. Just say it, and I’ll put him out of our misery.”

“Moriarty…” Sherlock draws a deep breath and intentionally lowers his voice. “Jim…”

Moriarty lifts his chin in challenge, but as Sherlock watches, John closes his eyes, and slowly but surely, the edges of his lips turn up in a smile. He looks at peace and absolutely without fear.

He thinks I can do it, Sherlock realizes with surprise, and feels his lips quiver in an answering grin. He feels a burst of confidence course though his body. His mind is clear, his vision is sharp, and his hands have never felt so steady.

He _can_ do this.

Sherlock looks back to Moriarty, who's waiting expectantly, leer in place. “You know, on second thought?" he asks. "I prefer the desert.” And he pulls out John’s gun, aims with certainty, and fires.

John’s eyes stay closed, that amazing smile in place, but a dark spot blooms on Moriarty’s forehead. He jerks and stiffens, and then falls to the ground.

\---

Sherlock finds himself sitting up against the wall, arms hitched over his knees, and John’s concerned face hovering inches in front of him. “Sherlock? You with me?” John asks gently, as he reaches slowly to Sherlock’s left wrist and puts two fingers on his pulse point. Sherlock looks up at him, puzzled, and then looks at his own hands. The gun is still clutched tightly in his right hand, his knuckles white from the pressure of his grasp. The air hangs heavy with the scent of blood. He can taste it.

He drops the gun. All at once, he remembers to breathe.

“John,” he gasps, drawing in a deep breath along with the name.

“I’m fine,” John says, answering the unasked question. He releases Sherlock’s wrist, and smiles into his eyes. “Not a scratch on me.”

Sherlock nods and swallows, finding his voice. “Good. That’s--good.” John hums and brushes the hair back from Sherlock’s forehead. “How was the shot?”

John’s smile grows just a bit wider. “Pulled a bit to the left, I think.”

“Trigger pull?”

“Exactly.”

“Damn,” Sherlock breathes. “You did warn me.”

“No judgment here,” John says with a shrug. “It was a hell of a shot.”

“Good enough, I suppose.” Sherlock frowns. “My hands are shaking, John. Why are they shaking?”

“Shock, I’d expect,” John says gently, and takes Sherlock’s hands in his. “Bit different from a cactus.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” He stares at their hands for a moment without seeing them. “Are the others--”

“On the way. After you--after he fell, you just walked over here and sat down. So I grabbed his radio and called everyone in. They should be here any minute.”

“That was sensible.”

“The calling, or the sitting down?”

“Both.” Sherlock pauses. “John.”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I don’t feel anything. Why don’t I feel anything?”

John’s smile disappears. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs sadly, gathering him in close. “You will.”

\---

The others arrive in a flutter of feet and flashlights, and John quickly takes command. The two luxury suites next door are also packed full of barrels, jammed tightly together on shelves that stretch from wall to wall and from floor to ceiling. John finds a few scribbled notes on a clipboard that send them to a triple-padlocked, air-conditioned construction trailer on the other side of the outfield wall, and after Lestrade takes his turn with the bolt cutters, they find it packed with barrels as well. Molly grins in grim satisfaction when she finds an encrypted laptop with Moriarty’s fingerprints on it. Jones and Addison set off to the promenade level for ice and bottled water.

It takes them all a few minutes to realize there’s no longer a reason to keep the lights off.

Sherlock summons the energy to rise to his feet and start pulling together the chemicals for the neutralization solution. He finds that the little kitchen in the suite really is well equipped, and only considers vomiting into the rubbish bin for a moment or two after the thought crosses his mind.

He feels more than sees the team members take turns looking in on him, but he can’t convince himself to care. It’s almost certainly John’s idea, and it’s probably a good one. He resolutely does not think of the past hour, or the past day, or what lies ahead. He just mixes the chemicals, slowly and precisely, and places the whole mess on ice.

After several minutes, Molly peeks in through the kitchen door. “Um, Sherlock? There’s--I have a call for you.” She holds out her mobile, which of course has signal. “It’s your brother.”

He slowly turns to face her and blinks down at the phone. “All right,” he says calmly, distantly surprised at how even his voice sounds, and starts to hold out his hand.

“Yeah, no,” John says, coming up behind Molly and snatching the phone from her hand. “I’ll take that.” He holds the phone to his ear and starts to talk, his face stern and his voice determined. Sherlock hears phrases like “not a chance,” “debrief, my arse,” “tomorrow, for Christ’s sake,” and “bloody fucking hero,” but he can’t make sense of them because Molly has moved out of the doorway, and Moriarty’s body is directly in his line of sight. Someone has thoughtfully covered it with a tarpaulin, but there’s no mistaking what it is.

Sherlock stares. _You just killed a man,_ he thinks, and the words echo around the halls of his mind palace.

His gaze slides to the rows of barrels, now powerless to harm, but so recently full of the power to kill. _But he wasn’t a very good man,_ another voice answers, and he feels the truth of it.

It’s enough to be going on with, for now.

John materializes in front of him. “Hey,” he says softly, searching Sherlock’s eyes. “The neutralization process is finished. We got a hazmat team in from the CDC, and they confirmed that everything worked. They got samples for you, and Mycroft is going to have them shipped to Porton Down.”

Sherlock stares at him in disbelief. “So, then...it’s over. Isn’t it?”

“I think so. Is there anything else you need here?”

Sherlock takes one last long look at the tarpaulin, and wordlessly shakes his head.

“All right, then,” John says quietly. “You’re with me.”

They make their way to the lift and downstairs. John takes his hand and helps him navigate through the hallways, the lobby, and the sidewalk outside, the previously eerie spaces now jammed with people and lights and so much buzzing. The gate stands wide open, and they walk through it and over the grass to the lot by the lobby, where John nods toward a dark grey sedan.

“Borrowed it,” John says, holding up an electronic car key. “Get in.” Sherlock does, and when the doors close, it’s blessedly silent. John presses a button, and the car whirs to life.

There’s almost no traffic this late at night. They head east. “Where are we going?” Sherlock finally asks, without really caring.

“Hotel,” John says, glancing over. “A locally-owned inn, actually, a little place not too far away. I booked it on my phone under an assumed name. I know we won’t be able to hide forever, but it should buy us some time.”

“Mm,” Sherlock agrees, rubbing his eyes. “What were Molly and Lestrade planning to do?”

“Oh, Molly has a cousin who lives nearby, apparently, and she was going to go stay with her. Lestrade told me quite a tale about an old friend.”

“I see,” Sherlock says, a faint smile coming to his lips. “They aren’t trying very hard to hide it, are they.”

“Nope,” John answers, cheerfully. “Not in the least.”

Sherlock snorts and looks back out the window, considering. “I can see it,” he says at last. “He’s used to demanding, highly intelligent but socially awkward science types with top secret clearances who are likely to require caffeinated beverages at odd hours. It could work.”

John shoots him a grin. “She saved your arse, you know. More than once, I think. So be nice.”

“John, nothing in that statement should be construed as anything but a compliment of the highest level.”

They slow and pull into the parking lot of a small hotel consisting of individual cottages separated from each other by thick hedges and winding trails. John flips on the car’s overhead light and checks his phone. “The confirmation says last cottage on the left. Room service ended at ten, but they said they’d send a sandwich tray and some drinks over.”

“Oh, thank god,” Sherlock says, with feeling.

They park and nearly stumble to their cottage, stopping only to collect the key from under the mat. Sherlock makes a direct line to the small dining table, cracking open and downing half of a bottle of water in a matter of seconds. Some perfectly brilliant member of the hotel staff has arranged a small tray of sandwiches, crisps and fruit, and he’s never seen anything more appetizing. He’s taking his third bite of sandwich and reaching for a bag of crisps when John appears beside him.

“I’ve swept the entire cottage, and it’s clear.” John slips out of his leather jacket and drapes it over the chair before reaching for an apple. “I doubt Mycroft would find the security acceptable, but we have unpredictability on our side. We should have a solid twenty-four hours, at least.”

“At least,” Sherlock echoes, and glances over at the door to the single bedroom.

John follows his line of sight. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says quietly. “I thought about getting a double, but--we don’t have to do anything, you know. I just--I really couldn’t imagine letting you out of my sight right now. You need sleep more than anything, and--”

“We could, though, right?” Sherlock interrupts. “Do something, I mean?” He feels the blush starting, but can’t bring himself to look away.

John stares at him for several seconds before the lines around his eyes start to crinkle. “Well, yeah,” he says, slowly breaking into a sunrise of a smile. “Yeah, we absolutely could...do something. Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

Again, Sherlock finds himself answering that smile with one of his own. “John,” he says with wonder. “We did it. And we’re still alive.”

John steps closer, smile still aglow, and gently wraps his hand around Sherlock’s cheek. “Yeah,” he says, leaning forward to press a light kiss on his lips. “We did,” he whispers, and kisses him again. “We are. And--” Another kiss. “We will. Do something. Very soon. But right now, you are going to eat another sandwich, and I am going to take the best goddamned shower of my life.”

“I’ll join you,” Sherlock says immediately, starting to stand, but John presses him gently back down.

“Eat,” he says. “There’ll be plenty of time for that tomorrow.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but his stomach betrays him with a grumble. “Fine,” he says, reaching for the bag of crisps. “But I’m holding you to it.”

John disappears into the bathroom, and after a minute, Sherlock hears the water running. It’s a peaceful sound, and as he eats another sandwich, he lets it lull him into thinking about absolutely nothing. It’s the most indulgent feeling he can imagine, and he sinks into it with relief. Through a growing fog, he considers falling asleep at the table, but then the water shuts off, and he remembers there’s a bed in the next room.

By the time he gets there, John is under the covers, leaning back on an improbable mound of pillows. The comforter is pulled up to his waist, and he’s wearing only a vest up top. Sherlock tries to appreciate the view, but he find he just can’t summon the energy. Pity, he thinks distantly, blinking his dry, burning eyes.

“Feel better?” John asks with a gentle smile.

Sherlock answers with a nod and a yawn.

“I made tea,” John says, nodding at the cup steaming on the table next to Sherlock’s side of the bed. “There’s a kettle on the vanity, for some reason, so I took advantage. Never say I’m not a man of my word.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock mumbles, clumsily kicking off his shoes and fumbling with his belt. He’s not going to bother with his shirt or trousers; the bed looks too damn good.

John, reading his mind, apparently, smiles warmly. “Leave the rest of it and come lie down,” he says, throwing the covers back and patting the bed next to him.

Sherlock slides under the crisp, clean sheets with a sigh. After only a moment’s hesitation, he curves up against John’s warm body, and carefully rests his head on his shoulder. John gently slides an arm around his body and pulls him just that much closer, and Sherlock hums in contentment.

“This okay?” John whispers.

Sherlock only manages a slight nod.

“Did you want your tea?”

“Later,” Sherlock mumbles. He closes his eyes, and at last, he sleeps.

\---


	25. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, commenting, and spreading the word. It's been a pleasure. 
> 
> Please see the notes at the end for a few extra comments and an important dedication.
> 
> \---

SIX HOURS LATER

Sherlock is stumbling back to bed from the bathroom when he hears a knock at the door. He hasn’t turned on the lights, and there’s barely a hint of sunlight outside the window. John is still out cold, snoring softly.

_ Shit. _

He tiptoes around the sofa to the table and reaches for the gun in John’s jacket pocket. There’s another knock--quiet, but authoritative--and he hears the shuffle of feet outside the door. It sounds like only one person, but he can’t be sure. His heart is pounding as he approaches the door slowly from the side, away from any of the windows. A quick look through the peephole reveals a bored-looking but otherwise lovely woman, precise lip gloss agleam in the porch light, holding a handwritten cardboard sign that says “Vatican Cameos.”

Ugh. Of course. He sighs, and leaving the chain lock in place, opens the door just a couple of inches. “What does he want?”

The woman lowers the sign and smiles blandly. “Not a thing, Mr Holmes,” she says, and holds up a plain brown shopping bag. “He asked me to deliver a few things that you might need: comb, brush, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, new pants, shirt, and trousers, socks, shoes in a size twelve extra narrow, reasonably decent tea, two bars of your favorite candy…”

“Which is?” Sherlock asks suspiciously, tightening his grip on the gun.

The woman’s smile widens infinitesimally. “You always say Lion bars, but it’s actually Double Deckers.”

No, that’s not...wait. Huh. “All right,” he says begrudgingly. “What about John?”

Her smile slips. “Ah. Well. According to our intel, he’s developed an alarming fondness for those American Skittles.” She holds up a second bag. “I have the same things in his sizes, as well, and I have three messages for you.”

He nods. “Go on.”

“Thank you. First, and I quote: ‘It was bloody difficult to find your particular brand of shampoo in the middle of the godforsaken American South at 2:00AM, so I hope you appreciate it.’ He’s not kidding about that, by the way.”

She looks at him expectantly. “Um, thank you?” he says, and she nods.

“You’re welcome. Two…” Now she looks mildly embarrassed. “The fact that the condoms and lubricant have been placed in Captain Watson’s bag and not yours is not meant to suggest any--”

“Enough,” Sherlock says quickly, holding up a hand. Oh, he’ll get him back for that later. “What’s the third message?”

She gives him another smile, and this one is warm. “Another quote: ‘Well done, little brother.’”

“Oh.” He blinks. “That’s...well.”

“Exactly,” the woman says brightly, and places the bags at the door. “Will there be anything else?”

“No.” She nods and turns to go. “Wait, there is one thing.”

She turns back to face him, frowning. “Yes?”

“I need to know. Does he have Moran?”

Her expression does not change. “I regret to inform you that Sebastian Moran is dead, sir,” she says evenly. “Mr Holmes sent an elite squad in to collect him for processing, but as might have been anticipated, he resisted arrest. He became quite violent, and finally attempted to remove himself from custody. Mission parameters stated that he was not to be allowed to escape at any cost. There was no room for negotiation. His loss is regrettable.”

Sherlock smirks. “No, it’s not.”

“It really isn’t,” she agrees cheerfully. “Treasonous bastard made me break a nail.” She inclines her head. “Have a good day, sir.”

“Hold up,” he says impulsively, as she turns again to leave. “What’s your name?”

She lifts an eyebrow.

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. What’s your name  _ today?' _

“Anthea.”

“Ah. Thank you, Anthea. Would you--” Sherlock hesitates. “Just take care of him.”

“Oh, I will, sir. I’ve been wanting this job forever, you see,” she says with a tiny wink. “We’ll have the office in perfect shape within forty-eight hours. He won’t know what hit him.” She gives him a last wave and leaves.

Sherlock closes the door just as John enters the sitting room, blearily rubbing his eyes. “What’s that, then?” John says, indicating the shopping bags.

“Skittles, John? Really?” Sherlock answers, setting them on the table.

“What the hell--” John looks into a bag. “Oh. Mycroft, right? Damn it, I thought I’d pulled it off.”

Sherlock shrugs. “You get used to it.”

“Yeah, that’s what Greg said, too. What time is it?”

Sherlock checks the wall clock. “It’s only six. Go back to bed.”

“I’m fine,” John says, and then yawns widely. “Never mind, I take it back. What are you going to do?”

“Well…” Sherlock looks down at his shopping bag. “I think I’ll take a shower, actually, and maybe have a real cup of tea…”

“Hey, I tried,” John protests, grinning.

“...and then I’ll probably read for a bit, and try for a nap later. Will I disturb you if I shower?”

“I was in the army, Sherlock. I can sleep through anything. Enjoy the shower. See you in a bit.”

“Sleep well, John.”

Sherlock picks up his shopping bag and trudges into the bathroom. After some thought, he decides to go ahead and turn on the light, but he’s very careful not to look into the mirror. He turns the water to the warm side of cool and steps in gingerly, mindful of his many sore muscles. He watches the water run off his body, brown, red, and then brown again in turn. The cuts on his wrists sting, his shoulder aches, and he’ll be washing sand out of his hair for weeks, but…

John was dead on last night. This is the best goddamned shower of his life.

He’s standing directly under the spray, concentrating on the feel of the water flowing through his hair and down his neck, when a waft of cold air signals the opening of the glass shower door. 

He smiles. “Need something, soldier?”

“Hmm, I think I do.” John presses up against Sherlock from behind and wraps his arms around him. John’s wet skin is warm and slick and slippery against his back, and Sherlock is caught off guard by the intensity of the feeling. His knees nearly buckle, and he braces himself against the wall with one hand. He feels the breath of John’s warm chuckle against his shoulder blades, and that’s amazing, too. “Turns out, I can sleep through anything except the thought of you naked in a warm shower,” John murmurs, nuzzling the base of his neck. “I hope you don’t mind the company.”

“John...” Sherlock turns in his embrace to face him. “Don’t be an idiot.” John grins, and leans up to kiss him.

Sherlock is very impressed by how long the hot water lasts. It’s longer than he does, at any rate. 

At least the first time.

John has to leave twenty-eight hours later. A cache of guns from Russia has surfaced in New Orleans, and unless the situation can be controlled, a diplomatic incident is imminent. John kisses him goodbye with what feels like regret. Sherlock wraps himself in the inn’s cotton bathrobe and sees him off from the cottage door; then he goes back inside and eats both of Anthea’s candy bars, washing it all down with a glass of hotel Cabernet for good measure. He’s not jealous. He’s not.

\---

TWO MONTHS LATER

Text:  _ Hello, dear. _  
Mrs Hudson. Hello. -SH  
How is Arizona? Is John still there? -SH  
_ No, he got called away to a mission briefing. He’ll be heading out shortly. He asked me to let you know he won’t be able to meet you in Chicago. _  
I see. -SH  
_ Now, don’t be like that, young man. He was bloody livid. Wouldn’t want to be in that bad guy’s shoes right now. _  
Well, he does take his job seriously. I can’t fault him for that. -SH  
_ He said he hadn’t seen you since the MI-6 debrief. I bet that was fun._  
It was, actually. John takes his cursing seriously, as well. -SH  
___I taught him everything he knows. Now, are you ready for your talk? Sounds like a heady crowd._  
Yes. Well, no. But I’ll pull something together on the plane. -SH  
_ You don’t sound excited. _  
It’s fine. It’s important to the lab, and to my brother. And to England, I’m told. -SH  
_ Aren't you proud of what you did? I mean, I’m proud, and all I did was make tea and give you boys a ride. _

Sherlock pauses, his fingers hovering over the screen of his mobile. It’s a good question, and this woman deserves an honest answer.

The chemistry part was fine, but it’s what I do. The best part was being out in the field. -SH  
_ You were shot, Sherlock. You were tortured.  _  
OK, I’ll admit I had a few bad moments. -SH  
But I enjoyed meeting you. -SH  
_ And John.  _  
Well, yes. And Molly. -SH  
Speaking of, has he made a decision on the CTU offer, do you know? -SH  
_ He hasn’t said it in so many words, but I think he’s going to take it.  _  
_ Anyway. He was going to check in with me before heading out. Any message? _

Sherlock smiles.

Tell him to watch his trigger pull. -SH  
_ Sherlock Holmes. Is that dirty talk?  _  
What? No! -SH  
_ Then I’ll have to spice it up. Ta, dear. And sorry to deliver bad news. _

\---

TWO MONTHS LATER

Text:  _ It’s not that I want to. -JHW _  
It’s fine. -SH  
_ No, it’s not, but I can’t help it. -JHW _  
_ At least I got to see you last month. -JHW _  
It was lovely. I’d never been to Mexico before. -SH  
_ You get it now, right? I’m still dreaming about that beach. And the tacos. -JHW _  
The tacos? You dream about the tacos? -SH  
_ Among other things. ;) -JHW _  
_ I wish you could come. I could use a good gunman. -JHW _

Sherlock smirks. They’re apparently thinking along the same lines.

I wish I could, too. -SH  
_ It’s probably better you’re not, though. -JHW _  
Why? Because it’s safer? Don’t think I can handle it? -SH

He grimaces even as he’s hitting the ‘send’ button. That sounds more than a little bitter.

_ No, you prat. I know you’re tough. -JHW _  
_ I was trying to say that you’d be too distracting. I’m flirting, Sherlock. -JHW _  
I see.  Sorry. -SH  
_ What are you wearing? -JHW _  
My lab coat. I’m in my office. -SH  
_ Your LUCKY lab coat? -JHW _  
Yes, of course. -SH  
_ Is there a lock on your door? -JHW _  
Yes, why? -SH  
_ Because I’m trying to help you get lucky, you idiot. It’s called sexting? -JHW _  
Oh. -SH  
Very well. Carry on. -SH

\---

THREE MONTHS LATER

“You sure clean up nice,” John murmurs with a smile, smoothing one hand down the lapel of Sherlock’s morning coat. 

Sherlock closes his hand around John’s and brings it to his lips for a brief kiss. “I could say the same,” he murmurs appreciatively, as he wraps his arms loosely around John’s back. “But to tell the truth, I like you a little rough around the edges.”

“Mmm, that works for you, does it?” John leans in and ghosts his lips up Sherlock’s neck until he can whisper into his ear. “Beat up leather jacket and sand in my boots, needing a shave, reeking of sweat and gun oil…”

Sherlock’s hands clench convulsively in the fabric of John’s suit jacket. “Not fair,” he whispers. “The gun oil is  _ not fair.” _

“Oh, for god’s sake,” an exasperated Lestrade complains behind them. “Again? Do I need to get a bloody hose?” He places a hand on each man’s shoulder and shoves them apart. “I’m getting married in thirty minutes. Can you two give it a rest?”

“Sorry, sorry,” John laughs, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ll try to behave.”

“Damn right, you will,” Lestrade grouses, and holds a warning finger up to Sherlock’s face. “And so will you. Now, help me with this tie. You, John. Go check on...something.”

“Yes, sir.” John blows a kiss to Sherlock over Lestrade’s shoulder and leaves. Sherlock’s eyes follow after him until Lestrade loudly clears his throat.

“Sorry,” Sherlock murmurs, and stoops to start adjusting Lestrade’s tie. “It’s just--been a while since we’ve seen each other.”

“Mmm.” Lestrade lifts his chin a bit higher. “He’s a busy man. The new office is growing like crazy, and Molly says the CTU higher ups adore him. They call him all the time. He was the perfect choice for director. But it’s going well otherwise, yeah?”

“As well as it can when one of us is an in-demand secret agent in another country, I guess.” He frowns at the tie. “This is a mess. I’m going to have to start over.”

“Ugh!” Lestrade bats his hands away and starts to work at the knot. “I hate this. Why do we have to do this?”

Sherlock chuckles. “I can tell you that, no matter how much you’re suffering right now, Molly has it much, much worse. Women’s wedding undergarments are positively medieval.”

“And how do you know?”

“Molly told me all about it last week. I now know more about wedding attire than anyone could ever want to. Trust me, it’s  _ crazy.” _

Lestrade stills. “Have you seen her today?”

“Yes. I ran into her when I got here. Anthea was helping her bring her dress in.”

“How--how was she?”

Sherlock smiles into his eyes. “Happy, Greg. She looked happy. And beautiful.”

“Yeah? It’s just--all of this has happened so quickly. And I’m sure, God knows I’m sure, but I want her to be certain that…”

“Greg,” Sherlock interrupts. “Relax. She’s sure. She told me she knew right away that you...look, she’s ecstatic. You’re good.”

Lestrade lets out a relieved sigh. “Good. That’s--good then.” Sherlock snorts. “What are you laughing at?”

“You being a cliche. The nervous groom and all that. Next you’ll tell me you forgot the rings.”

_ “Fuck. _ ” Lestrade’s face goes white. “I don't...what the hell am I going to…wait.” His eyes narrow suspiciously. “I gave the rings to you for safekeeping.”

Sherlock keeps a straight face for a long moment, and then breaks into a bright giggle. “Oh my god, your face!”

“You absolute  _ wanker. _ I  _ hate _ you. I’m going to…”

“Five minutes, gents,” Anthea calls brightly, popping her head in. “Do I need to separate the two of you? Molly will kill you if he’s got a black eye for the photos, Sherlock.”

Sherlock, still laughing, waves her off, and the two of them are left alone, each regarding the other with warm smiles on their faces. 

“Well,” Lestrade says finally, and holds out his hand. “Thanks for doing this, Sherlock. For standing up for me. It, uh, means a lot.”

Sherlock blinks and slowly takes it. “It’s my pleasure, Lestrade. I’m very happy for you.”

Lestrade searches his face. “And you’ll be all right without me, yeah?”

“I’ll be fine. You know Mycroft will keep me honest. And it’s a good opportunity for you. CTU will be lucky to have you.”

“You sure? It’s a bad time, I know, with all the--”

“Greg, do you hear that?” Sherlock interrupts, and cocks his head toward the door. 

“What?”

“Organ music.” Sherlock grips his shoulder and turns him toward the door. “It’s time.”

It’s a beautiful wedding, as weddings go, and a very nice reception, but it can’t be over soon enough. 

“That was a hell of a speech,” John tells him later, fervent and intense as they grapple in the dark. “Who’d think you were such a--oh Jesus, yes, right there--such a bloody romantic?”

Sherlock drags his tongue up John’s chest and then stretches to claim his lips in a fiery kiss, rocking the full lengths of their bodies together with an urgency that makes them both moan. “Maybe I was inspired,” he gasps, dipping down to kiss him, taste him, again.

The text comes the next morning before dawn: a suspected assassination plot in New York City, with some blackmail to boot. They barely have time for one last kiss before John’s ride is honking impatiently outside their window. Sherlock skips his morning tea and trudges back to bed, but further sleep eludes him. He stares at the ceiling until lunchtime. He’ll head home early, he finally decides. The new cell cultures he ordered should be arriving soon, anyway.

\---

TWO MONTHS LATER

Text:  _ Hi. It’s Molly. _  
Seattle, right? I saw it on the news. -SH  
_ I shouldn’t say. _  
You don’t have to. Greg’s with him? -SH  
_ Yes. Are you okay? _  
Yes, just bored. Mycroft has me doing cocktail parties now. Flying the flag. -SH  
_ Oh god. Will anyone survive? _  
It’s a fair question. I hate this. -SH  
_ Then why do it? _  
It’s important to him, and to the lab. -SH  
_ Well, it sounds frightful. _  
_ Oh, we’re going live here. I have to go. _  
Wait, can you give him a message for me? -SH  
Molly? -SH

Watch that trigger pull, Sherlock thinks, almost wistfully. 

\---

TWO MONTHS LATER

Text: I know you can’t answer. You probably can’t even see this. -SH  
I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you. -SH  
That probably seems silly, doesn’t it. -SH  
I mean, you’re leaving on a mission full of adventure and risk. My good wishes probably don’t carry much weight. -SH  
That sounded self-pitying. Sorry. -SH  
Just...be careful. Would you please? -SH  
That’s also silly. I know. But just do it. -SH  
Watch that trigger pull. I MEAN IT. Shoot straight. -SH  
And wear your goddamn armor. -SH  
…  
…  
_ I will. -JHW _  
_ You watch that trigger pull, too. -JHW _

\---

TWO WEEKS LATER

Mycroft strolls into Sherlock’s office, eyebrow arched, nose lifted, with his briefcase in one hand and his umbrella firmly grasped in the other.

Sherlock looks up from his desk and sighs. “Oh, no. I’ve suffered enough lately. Go away.”

Mycroft sniffs. “Nice to see you too, brother mine. Yes, I’d love a cup of tea, how kind of you to ask.”

“Oh, for...ugh. Fine.” Sherlock leans back in his chair and clicks the kettle on. “If you had to bother me, couldn’t you have sent Anthea? She brings me candy.”

Mycroft sets down his briefcase and rummages in his pockets for a moment, before pulling out a Lion bar. Sherlock looks at it suspiciously. “I prefer Double Deckers. You know that.”

“Yes, well. One must, on occasion, make do with less than.” Mycroft nods at the cluttered chair next to Sherlock’s desk. “Case in point.”

Sherlock stares at him. “You are a pain in the arse.” He stands and pulls two mugs down from their hooks on the wall, and then reaches into a glass jar of tea bags. “Move it yourself.” 

With a huff, Mycroft moves the papers to the floor, and gathering his jacket in closely around him, gingerly takes a seat. “Your manners leave much to be desired.”

“Yes, well, I’m a busy man, and you invited yourself.” Sherlock hands him one mug and settles into his chair with other. “To what do I owe the displeasure?” 

“Can’t I visit my brother just because I’m in the neighborhood?”

“You can, yes, but you don’t. Out with it.” Sherlock glances at the wall clock above his desk. “And you’ll have to make it quick,” he adds. “I have an important meeting, or something.”

Mycroft follows the line of his gaze, and frowns. “I still can’t believe you brought that hideous thing back all the way across the ocean.”

“It’s Mickey Mouse!” Sherlock protests with a laugh. “I had to have a souvenir.”

“From  _ Disney World,” _ Mycroft sneers. “Really, Sherlock. You, an internationally renowned scientist, a  _ grown man, _ spent a not insubstantial amount of money to ride roller coasters and hug strange Americans in furry costumes.”

“And eat corn dogs, don’t forget.”

Mycroft’s wince speaks volumes.

“I don’t expect you to understand, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, grinning and sipping his tea. “It’s obvious you lack an appreciation of the finer things. Now. Tell me why you’re here.”

Mycroft stares at him over the edge of his cup. “I’ve come to check on you. Are you all right?” he asks abruptly. 

Sherlock’s smile falls. “Oh,” he says quietly. “You heard.”

“Of course I did. It was a major operation, after all, and we coordinate closely with CTU on an as-needed basis. Lestrade kept us informed along the way, per protocol. John was quite effective. Very impressive. It’s rather amazing they managed to keep it out of the papers.”

Sherlock sets his cup down on the edge of his desk and stares at it blindly, absently tracing his fingers along the delicate handle. “I’d like to say it was all fine, but I’d be lying,” he says at last. “It was terrible.”

Mycroft nods careful agreement. “Americans can get quite inventive in their cruelty. Those men were....well, insane. Obviously.”

“Yes. We’d had such a lovely time, corn dogs notwithstanding, and then he got the call…”

“It was very sudden, I imagine. But these operations often are, you know that.”

Sherlock nods. “I know, but--this felt different somehow. We were in the hotel, and he answered it, and looked up at me, and his eyes...and he had to go completely dark. I had no idea what was happening. And I couldn’t go, couldn’t help.” He trails off, staring blankly out the window. “It was frightening,” he says quietly and looks down at his hands. “There was nothing I could do but sit there. For  _ days, _ Mycroft. And he barely had time to call before it was off to the next crisis. I don’t know how he does it.”

“He’s a hero,” Mycroft says quietly. “As are you.”

Sherlock laughs and motions to his cluttered desk. “Oh, yes,” he says, with some bitterness. “Saving all kinds of lives here. Christ. It’s horrible, sitting here doing basically nothing, giving talks, going to  _ cocktail parties, _ while he runs around saving the world. Literally  _ saving the world. _ I’m not even exaggerating.” He sighs and sags back into his chair. “I must bore the hell out of him.”

Mycroft watches him, his expression unreadable. “I’m told your paper on the Moriarty weapon was accepted. No revisions and in record time,” he says after a long moment. “I’m also reliably informed that the journal in question is quite...prestigious.”

“You know it is,” Sherlock says, flapping his hand dismissively. “You also know it’s not the first paper I’ve published there.”

Mycroft purses his lips. “True,” he says thoughtfully. “But it’s not quite the same this time, is it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ve heard tell you might under consideration for the Nobel.”

Sherlock freezes. “It’s premature,” he manages after a minute. “There are many others who--”

“Stop.” Mycroft holds up a hand. “Sherlock, you know what you did. What you do. You know there are others out there who will seek to do harm. You think you’ve only stopped one man, but--” He nods toward the desk. “Your publication will show others where to look. And your recent work on food production, water safety...that will stop  _ wars. _ With your gifts, you could be in New York, making boutique pharmaceuticals for the one percent, and instead you’re here.”

Sherlock is silent for a long minute. “I appreciate what you’re saying,” he says at last. “I’m grateful for this position, and I do know that what I do is important. It’s just that--” He looks up and gives Mycroft a self-deprecating half-smirk. “As it turns out, I’m good with a gun.”

Mycroft sighs. “Yes, you are, aren’t you.” He stands and brushes off his coat. “You’re fired.”

Sherlock blinks. “Sorry, what?”

“I’m closing down this laboratory, effective immediately. Your lab personnel will be reassigned. You will have to seek employment elsewhere, I’m afraid.”

“But...why? You can’t do that!”

Mycroft lifts a condescending eyebrow. “Budget cuts. And I just did.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Mycroft…”

“I’d recommend you start calling around immediately,” Mycroft interrupts smoothly, rising to his feet. “I’m sure there are many organizations with reasonable resources out there who could use a scientist with your particular skill set and education. Universities might be interested, and you’ll probably get some offers from private industry, but I’d encourage you to consider something a little less...conventional.” He studies the handle of his umbrella closely. “You might have to leave Britain to find what you’re looking for, of course. Our loss. But I’m sure with some careful networking, you’ll find a position in no time.” He looks back at the wall clock and shakes his head disparagingly. “Can you think of no one who might be able to offer you a hand?”

Sherlock stares at him in wonder for several seconds. The grin, when it comes, spreads slowly across his face, but soon he’s beaming with delight. 

“You know, as it happens…” he says, his eyes sparkling, “I do know a guy.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will forever owe 221bJen and Kedgeree11 for their services on this story. On a WIP this long, it's easy to fall into bad habits of tone and structure, and they were instrumental on keeping this moving along. I'll be going back and doing final edits, now that this is done, and will mark it thus when I'm finished. Any errors that remain are on me.
> 
> Thank you to all of you for reading this and for being so generous with your feedback. Thanks especially to those of you who have never watched an episode of '24,' but still gave this a go. I really do write fusions with the ultimate goal of making them stand on their own, whether you've seen the source material or not. I hope this one worked for you all.
> 
> Now. I'm dedicating this to two people I greatly respect and admire, and whom I am proud to consider friends: TiltedSyllogism, and UrbanHymnal. I'm adding their partner in crime, DraloreShimare, whom I have yet to have the pleasure of meeting, but whom I am told was essential to the smooth functioning of the challenge at key moments. Urban and Syl were the founders of the Fall TV Season Sherlock challenge, and did serious heavy lifting of putting on a complicated weeks-long challenge (writing AND art!) with no reward but the creations themselves, over a few years. After several seasons of both the long form Fall challenge and the shorter Miniseries March, they've decided it's time to put it to rest. I won't deny I have mixed feelings. I understand that it's time, but I've really enjoyed these challenges, and Christ, have they taught me about writing. It's probably not apparent but I've built in little extra challenges for myself along the way, things to try and pull off, and this format has allowed me to learn and grow like no other. I will always be grateful to these spectacular individuals for creating this beautiful playground for me to romp around in.
> 
> The last hurrah of the challenge will be next spring, when Urban and Syl will host the last ever Miniseries March. I urge you to consider participating. It's four weeks, one episode/chapter per week, fusing Sherlock with any TV show you think works. You don't have to make it obnoxiously long or complicated, that's just me. Go back and read some of the other entries; they are FUN. It's surprisingly easy to do, once you start thinking about it. Ugh, I have so many ideas. 
> 
> I'm so grateful, you guys. Take care.


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